


The Invisible Threat

by Diana_Prallon



Series: A Time of Jedis [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Arthur/Merlin - Freeform, BAMF Merlin, Character Death, Crossover with another story by Dark_K, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Inspired by a Movie, Jedi, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Pre-Arthur/Merlin - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Slow Build, Star Wars - Freeform, jedi order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8234542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diana_Prallon/pseuds/Diana_Prallon
Summary: A long time ago, in a galaxy far away...Time has arrived for King Arthur to face the first real trial of his kingship as the Galatic Trade Federation blockades Camelot, bringing hunger and poverty to their population. While the Senate argues the merits of the Federation's requests, the King must do what he can to liberate his people, even if it means counting on the mysterious Jedi Order.





	1. First Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dark_K](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_K/gifts).



> PLEASE READ!
> 
> This story is ready - there are thirteen chapters, which will be added once a week, until it is done. There's also two sequels (at least), of which I have now seven chapters completed, and that I think I will be able to finish at least the first of those two stories on NaNoWriMo.
> 
> This has also been A LOT of work. You guys have no idea how much research and discussions and plotting and arguing and debating this has taken - and it's all worth it. Not only that, but it led me into things I had never considered before, and that now are a big part of my life, but the most special part was probably working along with Dark_K, and whose initial tiny idea ended up in a crazy megalomaniacal (even for my admittedly high standards) multifandom crazy project that has transformed us both - hopefully, for the best. I should also take this moment to thank her for existing, and for being there with me, every step of the way; as well as for everything else - the Anakin I needed in order to stop being a bore and just become - well. This. Or maybe it's the other way around. We may never know. It doesn't even matter because I'd still be proud to be her best friend. I really do hope you guys like it even a tenth as much as I do, because you'll still have the time of your lives with it if that's the case.
> 
> BEFORE YOU READ:
> 
> * This is a Star Wars fusion, but things are slightly different. The universe is basically the same, and yet some things are different, but you'll get it along the story.
> 
> * This is a crossover with another series of stories (which we'll be posting in the same collection), which will follow Stiles, Derek and everyone else from that fandom on it - you can find it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8189963/chapters/18764885), in case you're curious. And it's really, really great. Even if you don't care for Teen Wolf.

 

 

As Nimueh approached the old red Defender, she could see it was ready to leave at a moment’s notice. It was not uncommon for her to feel thankful for the padawan she had received; Mordred’s willingness to follow her crazy plans was a blessing often and especially welcome in moments like this one, when a full score of Jin’ha warriors was chasing her through a swamp, shooting in her direction. She allowed her prescience to control her movements, covering her back as she ran, jumping and starting again, not paying attention to the water and mud that covered the flaps hanging from her belt and her leg-wraps.

 

There wouldn’t be much to save from the boots, though.A shame, she had liked them.

 

 Nimueh could sense the presence of the two missing Jedi they had been sent to find — she might have gone a _bit_ over what the Council had asked her to do but, at least, thanks to her ever faithful padawan, the detour hadn’t prevented them from achieving their goal on the damned planet. She wondered how much the other two Jedi had discovered before they were found, but doubted it had been all that much. Although neither Aglain nor Da’n’yy were fools,the crash had happened too soon to allow them to find anything. If the damage hadn't been so extensive, they would never have been caught.

 

It didn’t matter if they hadn’t found anything out one way or another, for what _she_ had discovered would be more than enough — incriminating proof, if anybody asked her — and she couldn’t care less what the Paqwes had to say for themselves in this case. She highly doubted some of her once allies and long time rivals would care to hear their explanations either. It was impossible that they were unaware of the Jin’ha’s activities in their planet, and whether they were being paid to turn a blind eye or were just too indolent to take action against it mattered very little for the final outcome of it.

 

Fact remained that they were here, armed and ready for a fight, chasing her through the swamp. A tight beam of light shone in her hand, the azure coloured double-blade clashing to their surroundings like a beacon of protection, rushing to meet the blaster bolts without conscious thought, its prolonged length protecting her as she twirled it in an vertical arc that she had no conscience of forming.

 

Nimueh jumped in a cartwheel, landing in the midst of what was almost a river, with a current and everything, and ran upstream, not stopping to look back. The cortosi armours that made sure that her reflected shots didn’t hurt the Jin’ha would greatly slow them down in this pursuit, specially against the natural flow of water. It was the way of the Force, that nature would help defending those who served its balance.

 

The Jedi pushed ahead, ignoring how the creek rose towards her thighs. It barely slowed her down, and she searched for her padawan’s distinct Force signature, thankful once again that he was such a talented telepath. Nimueh herself couldn’t receive much more than emotions or feelings, detect lies and intentions, but never fully _listen_ to a person’s words, didn’t matter how much they shouted at her mind. Mordred, on the other hand, heard it all crystal clear.

 

 _Turn the engines on — we won_ _’t have much time._

 

The roar of the ignition came not ten seconds later, and she allowed herself to look behind her. Her companions were now yelling to each other, and starting to aim at the ship they could finally see. One of them — the leader — watched her stopping through the scope of his gun, as he aimed at her. Nimueh made sure to grin at him before she dodged, turning off her lightsaber in a quick switch before her whole body went under the muddy water.

 

Even swimming, she could still hear shouting, and Mordred’s nagging in the back of her mind as she fought the currents towards the ship. The dark rich swamp water made it impossible to see and only the Force could lead her on. With strong movements of her well-trained limbs she continued, until even underwater she could _feel_ the heavy metal structure of the light corvette that had brought them as if it was a living being, which, after centuries of service to the Jedi, it might as well be. 

 

Nimueh pushed up from inside the water, and she heard the screaming of the Jin’ha, but they were too far away now to reach her. With an impulse, she jumped up at the ships lowered ramp, and Mordred lost no time in closing it. The boy was a good pilot, as much as he didn’t like to admit it.

 

Master Aglain was the first to receive her, seemingly unimpressed with her sorry state. They had been good friends _before_ , when she was younger, but he seemed to be weary of her now. Many of her old friends still were, even if she had done nothing but prove her continued allegiance to them for the last seven years.

 

“You seem to have run into some trouble,” he said, as she dripped muddy water unto the floor. Nimueh grinned at him.

 

“I see my padawan was able to save your sorry self from the Jin’ha. What happened here?”

 

“Tales can wait until you’re… presentable.”

 

Nimueh merely shook her head, not wishing to get into an argument about how this wasn’t the most important thing to worry about at that moment. The Kel-Dor master had already made it clear many times before he disapproved of the liberties some of the Jedi, Nimueh included, took with their clothing and their state. She headed into the ship, feeling Aglain’s eyes on her from beneath his goggles, but she wouldn’t give the Kel-Dor master the pleasure of seeing her squirm.

 

The door to the control room opened easily, and Mordred didn’t even look at her before running his report.

 

“Both seem to have been injured in the crash, unarmed and locked inside a building made of Force-containing materials. They damaged our fuel box in the shooting as we landed, we won’t make it to Coruscant like that — I’ve set the coordinates to the Bannistar Station instead. We’ll jump to lightspeed in a couple of minutes — I don’t think they’ll be able to get ships off the ground quickly enough to engage us.”

 

“Can’t be out of here fast enough,” she agreed and smiled, knowing that he could feel it even without seeing. “You did well, padawan.”

 

She could feel his contentment without need for words, as he tapped the seat next to his and pulled up the communication system to warn the other two occupants of the ship.

 

“Jumping into lightspeed in three… two… one…”

 

Nimueh considered the merits of strapping the seat belt in her state versus being thrown away and sat quickly, buckling herself up. The move to lightspeed was as jarring as usual, stars blurring as their velocity picked up. As soon as the inertia allowed the ship to stabilise, she stood up again.

 

“I need a change of clothes — and remember to ask a droid to come and clean up the mess I’ve made once we reach Bannistar.”

 

She could barely wait for the moment when she would feel the hot water falling over her body after the terribly cold and muddy waters of the swamp. Maybe there were some positive things to be said in Aglain’s love for proper presentation after all. A moment to consider all she had learnt would do her very well right now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 Da’n’yy had been in front of the council many times before, but it never made it less uncomfortable, especially after something that could only be described as a failure. It was a bit weird to see them — most of them around his age or younger — and yet, he was the one to be seen as a child in the situation. He doubted even young Mordred would be treated thus. Then again, young as he was, Master Nimueh’s padawan had been the one to rescue them. If he wasn’t a Jedi, it might have rankled, being saved by a child whose parents were born after him; but in an Anzat’s long life-spam, he was little more than an youngling, same as Mordred.

 

Master Kilgharrah’s eyes were as cryptic as always as he the chamber of the council came online, the hologram, instead of making them all duller, just made the Grand Master look even more mysterious. Incredibly old, probably the last of his kind, Kilgharrah’s features were even harder to read than those that showed in other reptilian species, as if age and communion with the Force had erased all marks of the things that normally characterised sentient beings.

 

“We’re glad to see you well, Master Alator, Da’n’yy,” Master Deaton started, and they could do little but to incline their heads in acceptance. The Korun master was easier to read, a small mark of concern between his eyebrows. “I suppose you two ran into some trouble.”

 

“We were shot off the sky before we even made contact,” he grumbled, and he saw some foreheads creasing. “It was a bigger crash than we expected — we lost consciousness for a while and once we woke up, we were already captives. I am sorry, masters.”

 

“It seems diplomacy has left the field in Paqwepor,” noted Master Peter, an amused glint in his blue eyes, but then again, the man always seemed amused. He had been a strange one, even as a child.

 

“Excuse me, Masters,” pleaded Mordred, and his pale cheeks coloured a bit at their attention. “I believe it is more serious than that — they were fully prepared to deal with… Unwanted guests with Jedi capabilities. I found them behind a cortosis door, and there was some on the walls of the building. My lightsaber spazzed out upon trying to force my way in…”

 

“Brute force isn’t always the answer, young padawan,” reminded him Master Isel-dir; which made Master Ruadan snort. Master Deaton rose his eyebrow at both before turning back towards Mordred. It was always funny to see when the council seemed to disagree; but there was a reason why Deaton had been voted Leader of the Council — the Korun master just had a way of making them all fall in line that was far less scary than Master Kilgharrah’s rare puffs.

 

“And the shackles they had too — there was something about it…”

 

“Ysalamir hide,” Da’n’yy provided. “Somehow they managed to keep the properties of the animal in it; we could not reach for the Force.”

 

“These are disturbing news,” Alator’s long head was inclined towards them, making his face look graver than usual. “What reason could they possibly be for them to be so well prepared against us? Did you manage to find any information about what they were doing in Paqwepor Major?”

 

Da’n’yy shook his head.

 

“We did not have the time to talk or even to investigate — we left soon after Mordred freed us.”

 

“It _was_ a retrieving mission,” Master Aglain reminded his peers, his voice rough under his breathing mask. “We didn’t have time to waste on…”

 

“Luckily, Master Nimueh didn’t think it would do to waste the trip — and she _did_ find out something important.”

 

He smiled at her, and she raised her eyebrow at him; thus far she hadn’t made any commentary on her findings, with their very short trip and trying to get rid of the mud around her. Still, he was _sure_ there was a good reason for her not to have been with Mordred when he retrieved and and returning with two score of Jin’ha warriors running behind her. That she had found something was the only good explanation — nobody would have wasted that many fighters unless it was an information they were actively trying to hide.

 

Nimueh bowed to the Council as little was would be acceptable, before starting to speak.

 

“I did some investigating while we were there.”

 

“Our orders were not clear enough? We said nothing of _investigating_ ,” bristled Master Ruadan, but she merely ignored him; as did the rest of those present. The battlemaster of the Jedi Order could be a pain at times.

 

“And I found that the Jin’ha are running an operation in Paqwepor Major,” which, of course, was no news to Da’n’yy after being their _guest_ for a fortnight. “I believe the Paqwes are at least partially aware of its nature, but I didn’t see any round the mining station. They have found there enough metal to expand from merely having Cortosi armours to constructing full on Cortosi droids — armed with Cortosi blades.”

 

“Intriguing,” Master Grettir said, almost disappearing in the large seat. “We heard no hint of this through our channels.”

 

“I don’t think Master Aglain and Da’n’yy were the first to fall into their web,” Nimueh continued, “From what I’ve heard there, they have become quite good at neutralising anyone who may have questions about it. More worrying than that, they are _not_ creating such droids for themselves — they have signed a contract for those.”

 

“Producing cortosis armed droids under demand — whomever ordered it, money certainly isn’t a problem for them — shouldn’t be hard to find out who it was; there aren’t many who have that kind of credit;” Master Peter smiled at his old padawan. “Worry not, Nimueh.”

 

“I’m _not_ worried,” her smile was both feral and graceful, thoroughly magnetic, as she looked at her old master. “I _know_ who ordered them.”

 

“Do tell,” Da’n’yy asked her, with a smile of his own, and she acknowledge him with a gesture of her head before continuing.

 

“The request was put in by the Trade Federation,” she completed.

 

“Most worrisome,” added Master Aglain, his lower-facial tentacles turning inwards. “What could they mean by it?”

 

“My good friend, isn’t it obvious?” Master Ruadan’s voice was booming. “They’re embargoing a planet with a rich history in military, and neither Camelot nor the rest of Albion is the sort to go down quietly. They’re preparing themselves for harsher action.”

 

“They wouldn’t,” Master An-hor-ra seemed shocked at the very idea. Typical consular behaviour, if anyone asked Da’n’yy, it was as if they forgot that conversations and negotiations weren’t everyone’s preferred method of dealing with problems.

 

“They will,” disagreed Master Meer-Dieth, her eyes going distant as it happened when she gazed into the Cosmic Force. “They will — and their armies shall overrun us all, sink the galaxy into chaos, harvest our younglings as food for their bloodless bodies, commanded by a shadow that will drown us all…”

 

“Master Meer-Dieth,” Master Taliesin’s voice was calm as he reached for his once padawan. “Do not lose yourself.”

 

She blinked, facing Master Nimueh as if they were in the same chamber, and not uncountable parsecs apart.

 

“You must go to them before they come to you.”

 

“Meer-Dieth!” Taliesin called once more, and the youngest master in the room seemed to return to her senses.

 

“I’m awfully sorry, masters.”

 

“It is a troubling vision,” Deaton continued, unsure as usual when it came to such things. Deaton was a man of science, as few could be when so thoroughly linked to the Force, and everything related to visions and prophecies discomfited him. “But I fear there may be some truth in it; it may well be that the Trade Federation is willing to go further than we thought in the pursuit of its… _rights_.”

 

Da’n’yy wanted to argue that calling taxes “rights” was going too far, but before he could say anything, Master Kilgharrah moved his wings but slightly, and yet it was enough to call all of their attention.

 

“It seems clear that trusting blindingly on diplomacy may lead us all into further trouble,” his voice seemed to echo through the stars until it reached them. “The Jedi we sent may not be fully equipped to deal with this crisis.”

 

“I volunteer to see this through,” Da’n’yy said, and Master Aglain turned to him, disapproving.

 

“This is foolish — you’ll need more than some bacta plasters to recover from the injuries…”

 

“I am perfectly capable of seeing it through,” he disagreed; looking over to Master Kilgharrah, who smiled.

 

“I’m always glad to see your eagerness, young Da’n’yy,” he said, but there was something feral on his grin. “But you’ve heard the seer — Nimueh is the one who must go to Camelot.”

 

“Me?” Nimueh asked, looking offended at the suggestion; which was understandable in the situation as far as Da’n’yy was concerned. “I haven’t — I’m not even _allowed_ into Albion Sector…”

 

“Not true,” disagreed Master Peter, raising an eyebrow. “Senator Pendragon may have forbidden your presence while he ruled, but there has been a new king in Camelot for a few years now — Ygraine’s son holds the throne.”

 

The anzati wondered if the council could feel her distress even from afar. Somehow, he didn’t doubt they could, only that they cared. Distress, in a Jedi, was something to be dealt with and undone, not something to avoid.

 

“It wouldn’t be wise…” she started, but Master Kilgharrah’s claws moved, dismissing the notion.

 

“It is a path you have yet to thread, in your penance,” he informed, seeming incongruously pleased with it. “Go, Nimueh, and clear the darkness around this matter. It is only fitting — life is but a circular cycle. There you strayed, there you shall fully return to your path.”

 

There was nothing she could do but bow and accept it. Da’n’yy wondered what he would do in her place, and how much of it her newest padawan was privy to — Mordred looked puzzled at the exchange, but surely he had heard _some_ of the rumours that surrounded his master — and he almost miss the end of the conversation.

 

“What consulars have been assigned to keep the peace talks?” Aglain asked, while he was distracted.

 

“Senator Pendragon requested that Master Gaius handle the matter and he was already close by — we saw no reason to deny his request. He’ll arrive at the Bannistar Station in a couple of hours,” explained Master Deaton, “you and your padawan may meet them directly there.”

 

The knight couldn’t see any single muscle moving on Nimueh’s face, but her disbelief was so intense that he could hear her thoughts as loud as if she had yelled at the council.

 

 _You_ _’ve got to be kidding me_.

 

Da’n’yy thought it was useless to remind her that most of the Jedi Council didn’t have any sense of humour to joke like that.

 


	2. The Satellite

 

Some of the older masters wouldn’t have approved, but Nimueh felt some twisted amusement upon reaching the hangar, her young padawan trailing behind her. It was always funny to see the way Gaius’ eyebrows shot up in disapproval in the sight of her. She fleshed him a dark smile.

 

“This is not the work of soldiers, Nimueh. This is a negotiation. You shouldn’t be here.”

 

While there was a warning in his tone, she merely shrugged. Gaius was always antagonistic towards Guardians, she had long since learnt that he felt that they were ancient relics of a long gone era, where the militaristic aspect of the Order was a matter of survival against the overwhelming strength of their opponents.

 

“You’ve got your orders, I’ve got mine.”

 

“And whose orders are these?” he wondered out loud, clearly distrusting her. Then again, she doubted he would have ever truly forgiven her, one decade, two, it wouldn’t matter.

 

“Master Kilgharrah has sent me,” Nimueh smirked. “Now, you may take it up with him if you dislike it — but I honestly doubt you will.”

 

“Hmpf.” The old man shuffled for a moment with his sand coloured robes. “And I see your padawan is coming along as well.”

 

“Yes — you _do_ remember Mordred, don’t you?” she gestured distractedly to the young man behind her. The top of his hair was cropped short, only a long braid of dark hair falling through behind his left ear, but the small pony tail behind his head was already curling. “I recall you saying he was very talented upon our last meeting.”

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Master,” the boy said, with a soft smile. It eased Gaius’ dark expression somewhat. Mordred usually had that effect on people.

 

“And how is the young kaleesh you brought with you last time?” Gaius asked, referring to one of the few children that had survived the kidnapping perpetrated by the Yam’rii during the last outbreak of the war that had raged for years between Huk and Kalee; the child they taken to the Jedi Temple both because it was his right and honour to be one of them; at the same time, it tasted sour to strip the Kaleesh of even more. Nimueh had had more than enough of the Senate’s policies, but her hands had been tied.

 

“He seems to be adjusting well,” Mordred answered, with a tiny smile. Nimueh was aware at how attached the two padawans had grown to the little boy they rescued, who was, in all honesty, a very sweet, very engaging child. Others might have considered it a dangerous thing, but Nimueh was a firm believer that developing relationships with the younglings made training them easier; allowing for better choosing of padawans when time came. It might even be that this kaleesh boy would one day train under Mordred. She was sure her padawan had entertained the thought even though he hadn’t spoken to her about facing trials so far — he was, though, almost ready and they both knew it. “He has joined the Dragon clan.”

 

“Not Heliost as you hoped, then.” Gaius pointed out, recalling the excited babble of the padawans while they left the war-torn Kalee. “You were in Heliost around the same time as my padawan, were you not?” he said, looking somewhat pained at the memory of the willful girl he had agreed to train. “I recall you were good friends.”

 

“Yes,” Mordred agreed, with a bigger smile — it was not a secret to anyone that Mordred and Morgana had been thick as thieves as children and were in constant contact with each other even when far apart; their lasting and strong friendship made Nimueh’s heart warm at the same time as it reawakened the longing she knew would never be solved. “Will she be joining us?”

 

“She will,” he sighed, long suffering “and it’s pure luck she is running late, or you wouldn’t have caught us here.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry;” Nimueh winked at the old Master, amused. “The captain has been informed we were meant to go too — he wouldn’t leave without me.”

 

Gaius grumbled something, turning to board the ship and she just laughed, under Mordred’s puzzled face. Whatever else, it was going to be an entertaining trip.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I know, I know — I’m sorry — but the quartermaster was very specific about the equipment and —” Morgana was surprised to see there were more people there than she was expecting. “Oh. Master Nimueh!” she said, with a small bow.

 

Morgana couldn’t help but look at the beautiful woman that was smirking at them the extra bag she had been given still in her hand. They had met a few times before, but there was something — peculiar — about Nimueh that showed in various small details. Her eyes blue eyes twinkled with humour, but her red blood lips were almost cruel. Her long, dark hair was bond in few different braids, framing her face.While her garment were just a shade above Morgana’s sand-coloured ones, Nimueh wore tight fitting leggings, and metal straps circled her calves, securing her boots. The top of the outfit looked almost like bandages; hugging her form closely and allowing a glimpse of her muscled belly. On her hips, instead of a lightsaber, clung a saberstaff, twice the length of Morgana’s own saber, and decorated with delicate curls of bronze against silver whose loveliness clashed violently with the practicality of the clothing. The brown nondescript robe seemed to be her only concession towards the Jedi dress code, almost an afterthought.

 

“Never mind that now, we should have already left,” Gaius said, gesturing. “I’ll just warn the captain we are ready.”

 

Before she could reply, her mentor had left, and she was alone with her best friend’s master — which, as far as she could remember, had never happened before.

 

“You should put that down,” the Jedi said, her smile kinder in the absence of Gaius. “Not that I think you can’t handle it for long periods of time — it’s just that we’ll be taking off in seconds and I doubt the quartermaster wanted this to be damaged in any way before we even reach our destination.”

 

Morgana let out a small laugh at that — she was right, of course. She put the bag away in the overhead compartment, and it was the perfect timing, the ship moving ahead at the exact moment she closed the latch and turned towards the woman again.

 

“He would probably kill me,” she leaned her head a bit to the side. “Well, he _would_ if it wasn’t against the Code or whatever.”

 

The woman was clearly analysing her carefully. They had met before — the last time barely over one year before — and sure, Nimueh had been intimidating, but she hadn’t looked at Morgana _that_ way, as if she was trying to figure her out. Morgana took a deep breath, fighting against the anxiety and curiosity that threatened to show up. This was _not_ the way things were supposed to be done. She tried to start meditating now, before her feelings became evident for the other woman. Morgana was almost back into complete serenity when the master’s voice disrupted it.

 

“You _are_ Uther’s daughter.”

 

There was no question in her tone, just a small hint of surprise, as if it had escaped the master before. The question pierced through her calm as little could. Why did people need to keep reminding her of it? Being Uther’s daughter had brought her no favours within the Order, and possibly even brought her more trouble than she should have gone through. It seemed she could never completely shake it off, for all that the Jedi parted younglings from their family still in infancy and discouraged any sort of recognition of blood bonds.

 

“Yes.” She answered, and she knew it was not courteous enough, or respectful, but at the moment she didn’t care — every second was a struggle to control her frustration and annoyance. Uther just had a way of having he rules bend to his favour, and it drove Morgana mad.

 

“You don’t like him,” the woman opened up a wider smile, as if this was a pleasant surprise instead of a trait to be despised in a Jedi. “Don’t worry, child — I don’t think highly of him either. I’m sure it’s mutual — oh, well, he _really_ hates me. He never managed to truly accept that _I_ won battles he lost — back in the Albion Wars — before you were even born.”

 

Morgana observed her for a second — she didn’t look old enough to have fought in it, and yet, from everything she had heard before, Morgana knew it to be true — and a that she had been of particular importance to it.

 

 “A Jedi does not worry,” she answered, but in her voice the words seemed to be simple parroting instead of a fundamental truth about their order, “but I have heard much about the Albion wars, and about you.”

 

“Most of it terrible, I presume — your master is not found of me either.”

 

Morgana allowed the laughter to be heard, keeping her smile even after it. Master Nimueh, unlike many other older Jedi, inspired relaxation and confidence, at least when she wasn’t trying to look belligerent. Morgana wondered how much of it had been related to Gaius’ presence.

 

“I don’t think Gaius thinks much of any Guardian. He considers fighting… Uncivilised.” She shrugged. 

 

“Ah — well. I think that he’ll be grateful once his old ass is in trouble and he needs to be saved through…” Nimueh bit her lip, smiling as if it was a private joke. “Aggressive negotiations.”

 

Morgana laughed at this, amused as well, until Gaius returned, interrupting the moment.

 

“There will be no need for it,” he grumbled, before raising his eyebrow of doom towards Morgana. “And you shouldn’t let this trip get in the way of your studying routine — I believe you haven’t done your aimed seven meditations today.”

 

“Seven?” Nimueh asked, with a smile. “Funny, just five were required last time I checked.”

 

“Master Gaius likes to hold high standards,” Morgana said, raising her eyebrows in a silent agreement that it was too much. “And says that it helps control my temper.”

 

“Indeed — control is what you need to master in order to sit the tests. So, if you ever want to stop being a padawan, you better start working. You don’t see Nimueh’s padawan wasting time in chit-chat when he has training to accomplish, do you?”

 

“Mordred is here?” Morgana asked, happiness shooting through her, though it should have been obvious from the moment she saw Nimueh. They hadn’t seen each other in over a year, as Mordred his master were often sent to the fringes of the galaxy. She had missed him fiercely.

 

“Yes,” the two of them said at the same time, and for the first time, they looked to be completely at ease with each other’s presence, in perfect agreement over the course of action they should take. “He will be happy to see you” said the woman, smiling, and even Gaius’ expression grew softer.

 

“Go — meet him — I can see there will be no point in trying to meditate before a proper reunion.”

 

Morgana didn’t need to be told twice.

 

* * *

 

 

Mordred was just finishing his fourth daily meditation when the door opened up. He enjoyed the peace he could only experience when completely locked inside himself and away from other’s people’s thoughts for a second longer before opening up his eyes, to see who had come and was pleasantly surprised to see Morgana.

 

The time since they had seen each other personally hadn’t changed her much — not that he had expected them to — and there was a comforting familiarity in seeing her again that only enhanced his inner peace. In a moment he took her in again — the light, sand-coloured uniform, the same belt all padawans wore, her saber locked firmly on it, her bead-adorned braid. Her ponytail was growing long now, twice the size of his, and in a darker shade of brown. Her face was still the same — beautiful and fierce, all straight angles softened when as her smile grew and she walked towards him.

 

Mordred stood up, to better receive her embrace, and was soon enveloped by her warm and the scent of flowers that seemed to follow her since they first met. She had seemed to much bigger than him then, so old and experienced when he was barely more than a babe, trying to adjust to life at the Coruscant temple. It seemed to be both long ago and no time at all. He hugged her back, allowing his hands to linger in her back as he felt himself pulled home.

 

Morgana pulled back a bit, but didn’t let go, raising her right hand to caress his face, feeling the roughness that remained on his skin after shaving and smiling at it, clearly amused by the development.

 

“You’ve grown so much,” she whispered, her voice soft and intimate.

 

“You are still the same,” he answered, honestly. “Although, from what I saw last time we were together, I sort of expected you to have been knighted already.”

 

“Ugh!” Morgana let go of him, stepping back. “Let’s not even go there — I think Gaius is trying to keep me under his watch until I’m as grey as him.”

 

Mordred smiled, she had never been one for patience — which was unfortunate in a Jedi, specially once that was being trained as a Consular.

 

“You know this is not true,” he said, softly, and she grinned.

 

“I’ve met your master, though — she has grown even more scary than before.”

 

“Nimueh can be… Very forceful…” Mordred knew how his words sounded careful, but Morgana’s smile was playful. “I think she is still a bit disappointed with the whole Kalee business, she doesn’t always see eye to eye with the Council” he confessed, with a sigh, because _this_ was the exact reason they were on this mission in the first place. “But she is an excellent teacher. I could not have wished for a best match.”

 

“I know - I’ve heard it all before!” Morgana teased, grinning, before composing herself and folding her hands together. “I’m afraid I must go now — Gaius will learn how to develop a true temper if I don’t get on with my meditation practice.”

 

She made a face, sticking her tongue out, and Mordred laughed.

 

“Will you join me for lightsaber work later?” he asked, wanting to prolong their moments together. “I think you’ll find I have improved vastly.”

 

“I expected no less — with you having all that practice and me so little!” she laughed once again, squeezing his hand. “It’ll be a pleasure.”

 

“It is settled then.” Mordred smiled, happy to see her so at ease. He had feared that this mission to Camelot would only increase her normal temper, but it seemed that it was not the case — he didn’t pretend to understand the reasons why the council agreed with Uther on this particular instance, as it seemed very unlikely that it would help Morgana towards her development — much the opposite, really. Mordred was pretty sure that if they had resisted Uther’s requests more often and moved her as far away from his influence as possible, she would probably have flourished much more and grown into a fine knight. But, he was merely a padawan, so what did he even know?

 

He watched as she sat down, getting ready to meditate, and smiled one last time at the sight of his old friend before leaving her to find peace in her own self.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Nimueh had long since stopped watching while Mordred trained with his lightsaber, the boy had grown more than a little skilled — he was a natural at it, really, learning fast and with reflexes that were enviable even in a Jedi. And yet — she couldn’t help but feel curious about Gaius’ padawan — a young woman, already, and Uther’s daughter to boot. Mordred had mentioned that she was the first to instruct him on it, drilling him while they were younglings. He claimed the girl was good, and while her bloodline spoke in her favour, Nimueh had her doubts — normally, skilled fighters would be directed towards Guardians, and the Pendragon girl had been chosen for a Consular.

 

Unless, of course, this had Uther’s hand too; it reeked of him, really, to push women away from the battlefield.

 

For all that she and Gaius disagreed in the best way to train future knights, it was clear that her training held fast; none of the two did so much as glance her way as she walked it. She sat on the side bench, observing their posture. Mordred was adopting a very defencive stance, his blue lightsaber shining in front of him; while Morgana’s yellow one attacked him relentlessly. She moved with a grace that was seldom seen, as if fighting was dancing, and she was fast. Her style was fluid, working with _Niman_ as was expected for a Consular, the bladework simple but effective. Mordred remained somewhat impassive, keeping his footwork sure and steady, and this was what gave it away that he was actually holding back.

 

“You’re not doing her any favours, Mordred!” Nimueh warned, and a small frown marred his face, while Morgana stepped back and turned off her lightsaber.

 

“What?” she said, looking at him.

 

“You shouldn’t have turned it off,” he replied, looking at her. “Come on — turn it back up.”

 

“Don’t you _dare_ going soft on me — this is — why?” Morgana seemed to be having some issues controlling her frustration, and Nimueh could well sympathise with her feelings.

 

“I just…” Mordred seemed truly at loss to understand what he had done wrong. “I didn’t want to push you. I _know_ you haven’t been practising much and…”

 

“And you thought you’d spare her the embarrassment of being beaten by a boy she once taught.” Nimueh completed, allowing her disapproval to show. “It’s a rare opportunity for her to be able to train with a Guardian, you should face her honestly, with everything you’ve got.”

 

Morgana gave her a grateful nod, and turned her saber back on.

 

“Now — show me how good you’ve got.” She taunted, stepping ahead and slashing at his leg. Mordred parried it easily, and moved away. “Come on — I want to see it!”

 

Nimueh watched as her apprentice squared his shoulders and moved forward in a forceful stab before jumping to avoid her blade and starting again. There was no mistaking the _Ataru_ form in his jumps and starts, the way he now relentlessly searched for an opening but the true surprise was to see Morgana retreat; not because she was overwhelmed, but because she was adapting to this new style. She moved less and more slowly, but her blade was everywhere, keeping him away. Her arms were kept close to the body, and deflected Mordred’s attempts to reach her. Mordred jumped in a cartwheel aimed to land in a position that would mean he was pressing her against the wall, and for a moment it seemed like he would finally strike a hit, but the young woman naturally raised her hand, using the Force to push him out of range. The first time, Mordred seemed shocked, and Morgana smirked at him, raising one of her eyebrows in a clear provocation. Mordred just snorted and shook his head, before starting again, a new spring in his step, as if he had just found what he had been missing in that duel. Yet, the same was true of Morgana, after a few moments, she was clearly moving before he was, meeting him halfway during the gestures, ready before he was even truly striking the blow.

 

Eventually, Mordred became a bit sloppier, his breathing heavy, and Morgana was careful even in grazing his clothing to mark her victory.

 

“Impressive,” Nimueh declared, with a wide smile. “You would have made a fine Guardian.”

 

“Thank you, Master.” Morgana said, with a small bow and a wide smile.

 

“It’s a great defence,” Mordred conceded, although he looked somewhat pained. “And a smart use of telekinetic, too — I should have expected that.”

 

“You are so skilled!” Morgana cooed back. “All I did was holding back and trying to find a moment to strike.”

 

Nimueh raised an eyebrow as he blushed, but Morgana took no notice of it.

 

“I honestly can’t understand why you were paired with Gaius...” Nimueh mused out loud, and Morgana gave a grimace. A touchy subject, then.

 

“It has been an honour to learn under him,” she answered, loyal even when Nimueh could sense everything going on within her — all her frustration, how much she had truly enjoyed being able to do this, how much she missed having more opportunities like this.

 

“I’m sure it has.” Nimueh agreed, it would do no good to question _her_ , but she _would_ talk to Gaius about it soon enough. It made no sense; the girl had all the traits of a fine Guardian, or even Sentinel. And yet — she had been selected to study the more elaborate mysteries of the Force when she clearly lacked patience to do so. If there was some clear latent talent for healing or something else that were the traditional business of Sages, she would have understood, but, at least for now, Nimueh couldn’t even start to understand the choice. “And with that, I believe it is time for you two to have supper and then try to rest for a bit. We’ll be there soon enough.”

 

She stood up, leaving the two padawans alone. She and Gaius were going to have a conversation soon.

 

* * *

 

 

Morgana tried as much as she could to control herself, and her body was as quiet as it could be as they waited for the elevator to rise. It still didn’t seem enough, judging by the looks she got from her others around her.

 

“Are you nervous about going to Camelot?” Mordred enquired, his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear — as if it’d make any difference in such a confined space.

 

“I’m nervous about the Trade Federation,” she disassembled quickly. “They are _not_ found of women.”

 

That earned her raised eyebrows from both masters; it was incredible how while they didn’t seem to get on well, they still were in perfect accordance in this, just when she needed support.

 

“You’re not a woman, you’re a Jedi and an Ambassador.” Gaius said, his voice firm. Nimueh gave him a disapproving look, which emboldened Morgana.

 

“I’m just a padawan —” she corrected, but he raised his eyebrow even higher. “Right…”

 

Nimueh gave one step ahead, and held her arm tightly.

 

“You _are_ a Jedi, an ambassador and a woman —  you have the power here, and you hold the cards — and they’ll just have to accept it. Don’t let their short-sightedness get to you.”

 

It was one of those things easier said than done. Morgana often wished she had been paired with another woman, and although they were not exactly few — though there were far less human females than in some other races, they were far outnumbered in the Order to the point where sometimes it became difficult to know your place. She supposed Jedi were supposed to be above such minor things are gender, but it certainly didn’t feel so most of the time.

 

“I’ll try — harder — it’s what I can do, after all.”

 

Nimueh granted her a nod, and Mordred tried a small smile, while Gaius face smoothed a bit. She took a deep breath, reigning in any questions she might have about the whole set up as they walked out and were received by a droid. It was clearly a human relations model, shiny and silver, with a soothing voice. The only thing that irked her was how it had been shaped — there was a clear suggestion of breasts in it, and its voice was softer than the normal tone. Nimueh shot her a side look that made it very clear that she had noticed it too and wasn’t pleased.

 

Still, there was nothing to do but to enter the room they were meant to talk on and wait. The droid returned, bringing refreshments, and they settled around the table — except for Mordred, who stood attention in a corner, observing everything although there was nothing to be seen but them and a simple set of chairs and a meeting table. She felt boredom coming as the minutes passed them by, none of them speaking. After a while, it changed into something else, that was not exactly anxiety, but something else, more complex. Foreboding, perhaps.

 

“I have a bad feeling about this...” she said, and Gaius waved her words away.

 

“They are cowards, the negotiations will be short and to the point — we’ll be out of here in no time.”

 

Morgana frowned and opened up her mouth to argue, but gave up in the middle. It was not as if he had ever listened to her when she said things would go wrong.

 

“No, I feel it too,” Mordred agreed, his eyes scanning the room. “Not just about now — in general. As if something was happening within the Force.”

 

She was grateful for his support, still her Master didn’t even bother looking back at him.

 

“Keep your mind on the present, padawan.” Gaius told him, as he had told her many times before. “Focus in the task at hand — there is very little point in worrying about what will undoubtedly come.”

 

“And keep your reflexes sharp,” added Nimueh. “This is taking far longer than usual.”

 

“They are stalling and creating strategies — not surprising. This was _not_ a visit they were warned about.”

 

Morgana just took a deep breath and decided to use the time she had to meditate. She honestly doubted that anything save an exploding ship would be reason for her to neglect it under Gaius tutelage. She allowed her body to relax and her eyelids dropped as she looked inside, seeking harmony with the Force and ignoring the weird tugs it kept giving her. The time would come to face it, but for now she could just breathe and concentrate.

 

Almost a full hour had passed when the tug was so sharp that it made her open her eyes.

 

“Watch out!” She heard herself saying, and in seconds the reason was clear to all — there was gas being flooded in the chamber.

 

Morgana took a deep breath, getting as much air as she could and slowing her body accordingly to avoid being contaminated. She heard as Mordred turned up his lightsaber, and saw the light of Nimueh’s azure blades coming out as well. The two of them stepped ahead, as if protecting the two consulars, but it took only one second before Gaius turned on his Amber blade and Morgana followed her master’s actions.

 

It was an easier wait, now that they knew what to expect, for the door to open. She heard the minor commotion of the droids before Nimueh and Mordred were already outside, making short work of them. As Morgana stepped out of the room, she noticed that the smoke had followed them in its attempt of dissipating. She could only see the corridor through a fog barrier, the bits of droids spread on the floor giving the scene a grim look, which she tried to ignore as her hand moves in tandem with Gaius’, striking at the remaining droids.

 

“There goes your bad feeling.” Gaius grumbled, slashing at a droid.

 

“And here comes the reason we were sent with you!” Nimueh said, gesturing to five rolling forms coming quick in their direction. Even through the chaos, Morgana felt a sense of contentment in knowing she hadn’t been wrong.

 

“With shields!” Mordred announced, unnecessarily as they stopped in formation and activated the damn spheres around them. They could stay there forever, and there was very little the Jedi would be able to do about it.

 

“We’ll cover,” Nimueh said, deflecting a shot. “Go to the bridge, we’ll catch up.”

 

Gaius lost no time in moving to the left, leaving them there, and Morgana shot them a last glance before following. It was useless to worry — Nimueh was a Master and Mordred was highly skilled, it would take far more than a handful of droids to stop them. When she turned, she saw the doors to the bridge had been closed — and her master was facing cold iron. He was not going to be happy about this.

 

“This is _not_ the way we do things!” He complained, before plunging his blade through the door. It warmed and soon was glowing hot, and she turned her back to Gaius, ready to face whatever came to get them. It was just in time, as more droids came around.

 

She could still hear the fighting going on in the other corridor, the unmistakable sounds of lightsabers cutting through the air. Help would take a while, it seemed, but instead of apprehension, it gave her a thrill to have the responsibility to fight. It was easy — so easy — to slip into the same state that she used when meditating, the blade moving swiftly with her arm, covering and protecting everything. She didn’t need to move much, for these droids weren’t particularly smart. It was a simple matter of knowing where they would strike, hold the fire coming at them, and reflect them back at the shooters.

 

“They’ve closed another layer,” Gaius grumbled, renewing his efforts on the door. Morgana barely registered it as she kept on moving and dispatching the droids that seemed to pour towards them.

 

She was just about to enquire on his progress when the sounds of Mordred and Nimueh’s approach hit her, and Gaius himself turned to look at their running forms, as they slashed and pushed droids away to get closer to them.

 

“There are too many of them.” Nimueh announced, but she seemed content with this turn of events. “I fear we’ll need a new plan — and a shortcut.”

 

Mordred was already above them, having opened up the ventilation shaft over their heads. Nimueh gestured for her to follow, before finishing up two droids with a single slice. She _was_ good. Morgana jumped, following Mordred as he crawled, not caring why. Soon she heard Gaius joining them, and Nimueh’s arrival was followed by a thud as the bars were put back in place.

 

It was a bit claustrophobic and uncomfortable, and very unlike most missions they had been sent on, but this was a joy instead of an issue. It didn’t take long for Mordred to find a suitable exit and drop down, the rest of them following the suit quickly. Morgana soon noticed they were back at the hangar where they had landed not so long ago.

 

“We’ll get our ship and…” Gaius started, but Mordred interrupted him.

 

“I’m afraid this is _not_ a possibility,” he said, gesturing ahead. There was a huge scorch mark on the ground where it had been when they left, and barely any sign of the old, faithful defender corvette that had brought them, or of the small crew they had left behind.

 

“Joy.” Gaius deadpanned, while Nimueh frowned.

 

“This is an invasion, not a blockade.” she said. “Look at this — it’s an army.”

 

Morgana knew she was right before looking:she could see rows and rows of ships, filled with skinny, skeleton-like droids, at the hangar that had been empty not so long ago. They might not be a particularly sturdy or smart model; but the cheapness in their making was counterbalanced by the sheer numbers, that would end up overwhelming opposing forces. Clearly this didn’t help improving Gaius mood.

 

“We could take a escape pod…” Mordred started, but it was his turn to be cut down.

 

“They’d scan for life forms and hit us in the air,” Nimueh dismissed the idea. “It would be better to have a _real_ ship, however small…”

 

“And then they’d scan us and take us down.” Gaius repeated her words.

 

“We’d have a better fighting chance.”

 

“We didn’t come to fight,” he reminded her, and when she opened up her mouth to protest, he continued. “Think smart, not fast. We’ll separate — hide inside different ships — and land with them.”

 

“We’ll be too late to be of much help!” Nimueh complained, but it _was_ a sound idea.

 

“We’ll be able, hopefully, to talk to the Order once we land, and we’ll do whatever is in our power to help — even if we can’t stop the invasion from happening altogether — and whatever we are able to do will be _more_ that we’d get by getting seen. Now, cloak yourselves.”

 

Morgana didn’t argue, but pulled her hood and concentrated on being unnoticeable. It was not _that_ difficult when it came to droids — and she was the first to get into a ship and ready for their next destination.

 

Well, as ready as she’d ever be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Aggressive Negotiations

Arthur was at the edge of his patience, which was _not_ particularly big. He had done as his father requested, and had waited for a long while for the Senate’s ruling in their favour, but there was no more time for it. His people were _starving_. Sure, Camelot was fertile, but not _everything_ could be grown — and there were other needs that should have been met but were impossible too while the Federation was blockading their planet. There was no lack of food, but Camelot did not produce medicine, for example, and the stocks had been rationed high on a year. Worse, it meant that they were having to use ancient methods to control the outbreak of diseases, turning what had long since been minor discomfits into longer afflictions. Disease meant, too, that there were less people able to work, and in turn, poverty was spreading fast, and allied, sickness and poverty led to bigger issues.

 

It was the way people grew hopeless, it made them reckless and dangerous. Arthur was proud of his knights, but they were spread thin as it was, trying to contain the despair from in all levels of the city. People had already started to trickle from the outlying villages, and farmers were soon becoming too rich for their own good. It led to civil unrest, and unrest led to civil war, people turning against their own because all rule seemed to have faded — or worse, failed them.

 

He was very young, and had lived mostly in a time of peace — this was the first trial of his Kingship, and he was not going to fail.

 

The Supreme Chancellor had promised he was sending ambassadors to talk to Camelot’s attackers even while the Senate discussed it — and although Camelot was _not_ such a small planet, there were probably more pressing matters to be talked about — the final outcome of the war on Kalee for example. Arthur had met the Chancellor’s attempt for direct intervention with relief, he had no longer known what to do, and there were few who could truly advise him in interglacial politics. _He_ was supposed to be the expert — or at least to become one, by the time his heir came of age to become king.

 

Since he _had_ no heir nor any particular wish for one so far, he was still clueless.

 

He _should_ have talked to his father about it once again, but that would mean admitting he was in over his head, and Arthur couldn’t do _that_. Not when Uther seemed exasperated when he even _asked_.

 

To think there were people that actually _fought_ to be king.

 

He hid all his worrying under the mask of control he had been taught to use from an early age, and opened up the communication’s channel to the Federation ship.

 

“Ahh — King Arthur…” Viceroy Alined gave his unctuous smile, and he looked slimy even for a Neimoidian. “How can I help you today?”

 

“You could help me by taking your ships away from here and finishing this ridiculous blockade,” he said, his face impassive.

 

“Ahh, but that is _not_ something I can do — unless you’re ready to comply with our new terms?”

 

“They are abusive terms and you know it,” Arthur shook his head. “I _know_ you have been told to adjust them and reach a settlement by the ambassadors from the Senate.”

 

Alined seemed throughly shocked by this.

 

“Ambassadors? I haven’t met any ambassadors. I am ready, as always, to comply with the will of the Senate, but there have been no requests. Are you trying to fool me, young Pendragon?”

 

Arthur controlled himself to ignore the surprise himself felt, and the sting of being accused of using underhand tactics to win something. It was _not_ the man he was, nor the ruler.

 

“If they haven’t arrived yet, they’ll be with you shortly.” He assured, with a nod. “I’ll be waiting for your contact to work on the settlement.”

 

He cut off the transmission, and Leon, by his side, looked as worried as he felt.

 

“Gather the knights — and the council. It seems I’ll have to contact my father after all.”

 

The Chancellor’s failure to honour his word didn’t bode well for any of them.

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t know,” his father’s voice was bristled even in from half a galaxy away. “The chancellor told me they would be with you today. I _don_ _’t_ know why they aren’t. He must have sent Jedi — and everyone knows we can’t trust Jedi — they do things in their own time as much as the Senate.”

 

Arthur took a deep breath, before moving straight to the point.

 

“They _may_ have or they _did_? You _surely know_ the answer — you always do.”

 

This made Uther smile, but it wasn’t a kind smile.

 

“Yes — but _you_ are the one that should _know_ instead of calling up every five minutes simply because a few ships are on the way. Blow them up and have it done with. Unless you completely depleted the reserves since I’ve last been home, you have more than enough firepower to it.”

 

“Father!” was his only answer, his voice shocked at the very suggestion.

 

“With all due respect, sire” said old Geoffrey, the bureaucrat of the palace. “I have a feeling the Senate wouldn’t approve this course of action.”

 

“The Senate is not what it was,” Uther shook his head, annoyed. “They have become defiled by corruption and greed — ruled by bureaucrats like you, all in the pay of the Federation. It will _not_ rule in our favour easily.”

 

“Which is exactly _why_ I asked for an ambassador!” Arthur complained, pacing in front of the throne. “I _am_ ready to reach a settlement, I just can’t accept the terms as they are now — it would do an even greater damage than it the blockade is doing.”

 

“Stop pacing” his father chided. “Pacing is for men who are unsure, and unsure men are not kings.”

 

Arthur had heard it all before, but it made him stop anyway. He scowled at his father, who then finally gave the answer to his question.

 

“I requested that Gaius be assigned to this,” he temporised, raising his chin high. “As you know, he is a man I feel I can trust — in spite of being a Jedi. We have been friends for a long time, and I believe he is to be stronger in upholding our side than another man would. Oh, and Arthur? He is supposed to take his padawan with him. Make sure you welcome them properly when they move from the ship to the planet.”

 

Arthur barely managed to contain his grimace. He had never met Gaius or his padawan, but he would have to be blind and deaf not to know who his father meant. There was a trace of begrudging pride in his voice when he said it, something he _never_ had shown when talking about Arthur — he was always too quick to dismiss everything Arthur did, but it seemed that his sister could do no wrong, even being a Jedi. He knew it was not fair to compare himself to her — not only they had never met, but also she had never even known Camelot. It wasn’t as if she could be a threat, and from the little he had gathered from the intelligence sources that were loyal to him rather than to his father, Arthur highly doubted she was particularly happy about this arrangement. Still, it made him feel marginally better to know that he wasn’t the only one that sometimes was pulled into uncomfortable positions by Uther.

 

“Sure. Now, maybe you could ask for a report, see if something happened to them on their way.”

 

“It is harder without Gaius here — you know how they are — but there _is_ a sure way to know…”

 

This father’s image started breaking up, and it Arthur struggled to understand his next words.

 

“Using the…”

 

“Father?” He called, as it was clear he hadn’t noticed anything from his end. “Father!”

 

But the image was gone, and Arthur looked up at Gwen, his chatelaine.

 

“Find out what is wrong with the communications,” he ordered, his hand on his hips.

 

“It seems we’ve been cut off,” offered Geoffrey. “Never a good sign when perfectly good calls…”

 

“There is no signal…” Gwen said, frowning at the tablet in her hand. She shook the thing as if it would change anything, and even slapped it, but her expression made it clear there was no change. “ _All_ communication is shut down — even inside the planet — I’ve… It must be a rather strong blocker.”

 

“Well, cutting off communications can only mean one thing,” said Leon, his face grim. “A full on invasion.”

 

Arthur knew it well enough, and he barely stopped to take a deep breath before turning towards the rest of his council.

 

“Ladies and gentleman, we are at war.”

 

Now there was little he could to but try to prepare his people for it.

 

* * *

 

 

It seemed, this was to be a day full of firsts — first time the negotiations she entered turned sour so quickly, the first time she travelled as a stowaway, first time she was to actually step on her home planet. She could bet Gaius would be in a mood, he hated when things didn’t go according to plan and always said that it was the foolishness of youth that made her thrive in such situations. Somehow, after meeting Nimueh, it seemed less likely to be the case, but there was nothing to be won by pursuing that line of thought.

 

She allowed her breath to even out, focusing on being unnoticeable — not very hard when most droids were turned off, but it was better not to take chances. She felt the swift impact of entering the atmosphere, and for a moment everything was still just before it went to hell. It took her an embarrassing amount of time to understand they were crashing fast, plummeting through the sky.

 

Well, it wasn’t as if she had thought the day _wouldn_ _’t_ get more exciting.

 

She moved as quickly as she could, ignoring the heated air coming from the other side of the ship — the front side — and kicked open the back gate that was meant to be used for unloading the droids in stand by. The wind almost knocked her back, and her ears complained quickly from the change in pressure, but there was no time to worry about it, or the small rush of nausea she got by looking down. Even for a Jedi, it was a huge drop — she needed to thread carefully here. One deep breath, and she was jumping.

 

The trick was in both allowing your muscles to relax for the impact and manipulate the force to slower your speed — and, of course, to roll just right when once you actually were in the ground.

 

She wished she could say she handled it perfectly, but impact brought a sharp pain to her right heel even as her body rolled over it in a cartwheel. The day just kept getting better and better. It was a testament to how bothered she was that the sound of the ship hitting the ground and exploding surprised her, making her jump to her feet again. Turning, she was faced with the image of the ship being engulfed by flames. Now, that seemed like solving a problem by creating another one; the grass where they had landed seemed dry and it wouldn’t take long for it to spread.

 

Maybe this was part of their tactic — she wouldn’t know — but she doubted they had truly considered it. Other ships had managed to land without being hit, although she could see one heading towards the deep lake ahead in flames. It was best if she got out now, while the droids were still trying to figure out how to behave — there would be far too much hassle to hide herself in the midst of all that green. She stood out like a sore thumb in her light clothes.

 

The Citadel was just ahead, so there was no reason to stop, really. She took a deep breath, fixing her ankle — running would surely be required — and moved towards it as quickly as she could. Gaius, she knew, was already waiting under the bridge — his calm presence a mark on the Force to which she turned as she begun to jog. She wasn’t familiar enough to Nimueh to have any idea where she was, but she couldn’t reach Mordred either and for a moment she felt a pang of worry before the sounds of laser blasts and lightsaber hits turned her attention back to the situation she was.

 

Nimueh, it seemed, was but a few meters ahead, dispatching the droids that were trying to stall her. Morgana tried to speed up and help — not that Nimueh seemed to be in any particular need of help — and reached the woman just a few seconds before they got to the bridge.

 

“What happened to _being discreet_?” Hissed Gaius, turning up his lightsaber and joining them as they made a stand. There weren’t that many droids coming anymore.

 

“I’m just making sure there is no witnesses to our arrival!” Nimueh replied, cheekily. Morgana couldn’t help but chuckle.

 

“I’m sure nobody will question dozens of droids broken on the way to the castle.” Gaius cut the last one down and turned off his blade.

 

“Well — I’ve always heard Camelot had the _best_ knights in the galaxy,” Morgana offered, smiling to Nimueh, who let out a laughter and patted her shoulder.

 

Gaius raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and she kept her tongue in check, chastened by this look alone. As they walked inside and the adrenaline jolt stopped, she turned again towards the guardian.

 

“Where is Mordred?”

 

“Don’t worry about Mordred,” Nimueh waved her hand away. “He’s just fine. Now, come on — it’s time you met your brother.”

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur and his knights were in position and had their swords drawn as the sounds fighting approached the throne room. It was _not_ the way he would have preferred to make his stand, but it was the best option they had right now. There was no time for open battle — not with an invasion this size. Elyan, who was in charge of the shooters, had warned them that around fifteen ships had landed safely, to ten ships shot — but that was almost half an hour ago, and since even internal communication was impossible, he had no way to know how much he was facing here. Worse — he had heard explosions, but there was no way to say what had caused them, or even if his hitters were still alive.

 

Then — it hit him — the sounds approaching were far too odd — it was the running of human feet, not metal against stone, and far too light to belong to his knights.

 

Not that the Knights of Camelot would run — they were trained and ready to die in service. He felt a ripple of worry as it got closer, but he wouldn’t break formation.

 

There was something of an explosion, and dust hid their view for a moment, but some things couldn’t be mistaken — the glow of lightsabers in the midst of the rubble that seemed to have fallen. His body eased infinitesimally — in spite of anything his father might say, Jedi _were_ good news at this moment.

 

“Hello” said a woman, before hitting back a shot with her blue blade. “I’m sorry — it seems we have caused some damage to your ceiling here.”

 

“The least of our worries,” he answered with a grin, but nobody moved out of place; they were far too disciplined to break ranks merely because help had arrived.

 

The sound of a fresh group of droids approaching made her bit her lip.

 

“Ah — those should be the last for a while — the other ships are further away. Gentlemen — if you may help?”

 

“On me!” Arthur said, stepping ahead. It was still hard to see outside, but he could see the other two Jedi were no longer around.

 

“Hold the corridor” the woman said, gesturing towards it. “We’ll make sure the way out is clear.”

 

“We’re not…” Arthur started, but it was pointless, since she was already disappearing into a corner. He shook his head, and turned his attention to his men. “Let’s do this — shields up!”

 

There was the unmistakable thrum as they turned their shields at once, each man covering part of the following one. Their armours might be mostly crafted from the cortosis mined in Nemeth, but too much damage would ruin it — while their shields reflected the blasts back at the shooter. Some might consider the people of Albion primitives for using direct contact, blades and armours instead of exchanging them for the same guns that were commonplace all through the galaxy, but there was no honour in using an automatic weapon. They were warriors, not soldiers, and would behave as such.

 

It was but a few seconds before the first wave of droids came, all aiming to their middle and most were caught by the reverse blast, but the second wave wouldn’t be fooled — they could be seen, now, and the formation would be a hindrance instead of a guarantee.

 

“Engage” he said, pulling his shield back from where it was protecting Lancelot’s body. Arthur tightened the grip in his swords isolated hilt and stepped ahead, swinging wide.

 

It was somewhat easy then — droids were _not_ expecting to be attacked by regular swords, he could see, and their weapons were mostly useless this close. Through the corner of his eye, he saw as Percival just pushed a whole gag of them out of the window with his massive arms, but there was no time to waste in watching his knights as one enemy came after another to be cut down. It was easier than with humans — for all that their body was metal, their joints were weak and the circuits broke far more easily than muscle and sinew. There was no blood to make his blade slick, and no fat for it to get stuck.

 

There was but a moment of silence as Lancelot stuck down the last of the droids, parts spread carelessly through the corridor, before they heard new steps. Someone was striding towards them, Arthur heard without seeing how their knights went back into battle stance. He saw a figure coming from the same place where the droids had been, face covered by their clothing, and for a second he worried at what else had been sent along with the droids before the person dropped the hood of their vest and smiled at them.

 

“Hello, little brother,” There was a blinding smile in her face, and she looked a bit like the woman who had spoke to her before, and in spite of the clear irony in her words, she seemed softer than the previous Jedi, somehow, and clearly younger. Her smile became a smirk and she rose her eyebrow, studying Percival standing on his left side. “That is _not_ the welcome I was expecting, I should say.”

 

“At ease,” Arthur commanded, and they all lowered their blades. From up closer, they could see that she had the robes of a Jedi, and that had also _not_ been how he had expected for them to meet. He gave her a small bow. “My lady.”

 

Morgana laughed at this, shaking her head.

 

“I see you have been well taught, but now is not the time — they’re waiting for us.” She didn’t wait for his reply to start walking, clearly guiding them through the corridor where the other Jedi had disappeared before. The whole not waiting seemed to be a Jedi trait. “Come on!”

 

“And by _they_ you mean who exactly?” he asked, rushing to keep up with her. He was taller, and seemed more athletic, and while he knew he couldn’t keep up with her reflexes, she seemed to approve his attempt with a look.

 

“Master Nimueh and Master Gaius,” she informed him, seeming at perfect easy although they were pretty much running. “We are going to get you out of here.”

 

“I am _not_ leaving my people!” He bristled — this was _not_ the sort of king he was. He was no coward to simply leave like that.

 

“Think smart, not fast,” Morgana said, in a tone of a person who had heard the same enough times. “Your communications are blocked, the towers from which you were attacking their landing ships have been exploded, last I checked there were 30 ships already on the ground, each of them with _thousands_ of droids. You cannot resist them — and they’ll land down and force you to accept this invasion. Your only chance is to get out of here and plead for the Senate to intervene.”

 

As much as Arthur hated to admit it, it _made_ sense. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already planned for what would happen to his people in case he was captured. There was a reason Leon wasn’t with them — he and Gwen had been left in charge of the actual people of Camelot. The droids were now roaming through a mostly empty town, while the Camelotians where taken through the Darkling Woods to the mazes under the White Mountains, where they would be safe. Part of his knights had followed, and only a handful stayed back with him for a Last Stand.

 

“How do you plan on getting past the blockade?” he finally asked, focusing on the matter at hand.

 

“With a little bit of luck,” was the reply, along with a wink, as they rushed down the stairs that led to the palace’s hangar; and Arthur said a small prayer wishing that it would be as simple as that.

 

* * *

 

 

Normally, padawans spent most of their time with their masters — at least during the early years. Lately, he and Nimueh had been parted on occasion, to cover different things sometimes. He was generally glad to have the opportunity to do things on his own — Nimueh was a great teacher, and clearly talented at her job, but she was also headstrong, intimidating, and somewhat given to bursts of activity. She was _not_ one for prolonged planning, and Mordred suspected this was part of the reason why she and Gaius didn’t get along. Being on his own made him feel older, more competent somehow.

 

Clearly being shot down the sky and landing in a place he knew little about and far away from any contact when he was supposed to be with her, on the other hand, wasn’t great. Mordred had been ready to leave at a minutes notice when he boarded the cargo ship carrying droids, but for some reason he didn’t expect it to be hit while on air. On the other hand, he wasn’t the only one not to expect it, if the droids reaction was any clue. Mordred didn’t wait to see how this would turn out — he turned up his lightsaber, cut the door open, and looked down.

 

They were loosing height and far too close to the castle that served as Camelot’s central administration. This was not going to end well — and the slanted roofs might be a problem, but at least it wasn’t far. Mordred just jumped, trying not to worry too much about the landing. He skidded down the roof, far too fast for his own tranquillity, but luckily the place was decorated with gargoyles — which allowed him to hold himself up and avoid smashing himself on the courtyard bellow. The whole roof shook as the wing of the ship he had been on knocked down half of the tower. Mordred held on for dear life, but spent a second sending his thoughts towards the poor shooter that had most likely blown out of existence. He knew that it’d hit the ground soon and shake everything, so he braced himself for it before the impact came.

 

Then, there was the question of _how_ to get out of his position and inside the castle. He looked around and saw a ledge in which he could probably hold and lower himself to one of the windows. He concentrated before letting go of one arm and swinging to move. Mordred ignored as his muscle burnt, far too used to the exertion to care, and kicked the glass underneath. In the midst of the sounds of ships descending, shots and minor explosions, it seemed like a very small noise. He kicked twice more just to be sure, and jumped inside.

 

It seemed to be a room of some sort — perhaps belonging to a noble, if the rich furnishings were anything to go by. Mordred didn’t really care about it — right now, he had to focus in finding the King. They had to get him out of there, or he’d be forced to sign something endorsing the invasion and, probably, killed. Mordred didn’t even want to imagine _how_ Uther would react if this was the case. Not for the first time, he thanked everything in existence that he didn’t share Morgana’s gifts; he would’ve enhanced the power of the Dark Side greatly.

 

Mordred rushed out, and there was absolutely no one around. Well, he’d have to rely on the Force to find the throne room, it wasn’t as if there was signs around to help. He walked down the corridor and turned left, going down the stairs until the windows showed he was on the ground floor. He turned back right, imagining it was about the correct place to find the throne room — he was pretty sure this was where the King was — when he felt a nudge on the other direction. Not just some nudge, he’d know that touch anywhere.

 

_Across the courtyard, down the stairs, past the dungeons._

Mordred knew better than to defy Nimueh’s instructions, and he knew that she would never redirect him unless it was essential. As he cloaked himself, he heard the sounds of battle coming from the front of the courtyard — sabers and droid blasts — but if she needed any help, she would’ve asked. She had sent him somewhere else for a reason, and he jumped over the ground-level balcony, dashed across the courtyard and used his hard gained experience unlocking doors to open the one that led to the dungeons. It croaked in it’s hinges as he pushed it, but it seemed to be used often. He ran down, and all sounds disappeared save for his feet echoing on the damp stones. It was a grim place, even if it was, compared to some dungeons he had seen, light and airy.

 

_Down the left — follow the steps — make sure everything_ _’s in order._

He really didn’t need to be told twice. He followed through a corridor that seemed to have been out of use for a long time, filled with metal shards, blocks of stone and enough dust to choke a man. It ended in row of steps, that seemed to lead towards some sort of cave. Funny, he hadn’t pictured a cave underneath the castle, but it was wide — even the landing was not more than a couple meters long before dropping down to… more rocks, really. Mordred wondered for a second what the hell he was meant to do there, when he saw it — low on the cave and almost completely hidden: a ship.

 

A more careful analysis showed that there were more steps that allowed him to reach the lower levels — he might have done acrobatics, but if this was to be their escape, it needed to be somewhat easy to access by all — and Gaius was old even if he was a Jedi, and he knew nothing about Camelot’s King. He rushed down, wondering how Nimueh had known about it, or if they had met the king and he had directed them.

 

Coming closer, he discarded that second option. It was clear that the ship was old. It seemed to be some sort of military scout vessel, heavily armed, but the design was nothing like the ones Mordred was used to — squared and ungainly, of some dark blue metal that held no shine. The ship stood on four legs, like some gigantic bug. It wasn’t particularly big, but could clearly carry at least 50 men with ease. Mordred had no idea how it was supposed to be operated, but a touch on the closest leg caused the door to open and a ramp to be lowered.

 

Well, that had been easy.

 

It still didn’t mean he had _any_ idea how this was supposed to work. Mordred fancied himself a rather good pilot, but some of this controls were so outdated that they just baffled him. He randomly switched things on, and the whole ship hummed. With the computers on, navigation should be much easier. _Should_ being the operative word here. There was a layer of dust here too, and Mordred wondered how long since the ship had flown, and if it was even capable of flying anymore. He set the computers to scan all features, and opened up all latches to get rid of the stale air.

 

He had just gotten the readings back — and surprisingly most of it seemed to be in working condition — when he heard noises outside. Nimueh and Gaius were the first in, and Mordred turned to his master immediately.

 

“All readings seem fine — but I have no idea how to fly…”

 

“I’ll fly it.” Both of them said at once, surprising him. “You young people are far too reliant on current technology, you don’t…”

 

“To be fair, this ship has not left the ground since long before he was born,” Nimueh interrupted the old man. “I think the supplies are useless, though, so we might have a small problem of hunger…”

 

“Morgana will bring them,” Gaius said, sitting down at the console, and Mordred was shocked to see the old man smile. “Hello, my beauty!” he said, clearly referring to the ship.

 

“Don’t get sentimental now!” Nimueh warned, but she seemed softer around the edges as well. “Not the time to dwell on the past — it’s time to leave.”

 

As if on cue, Mordred heard steps running up the ramp, and Gaius was setting the helmet around his head.

 

“Alright. Let’s get you out of here, beauty.”

 

With a gasp and a start, the ship rose and they flew away.

 


	4. Sandcastles

There were many mysteries in life — Arthur had always been aware of that — but right now the one eating him was how had Nimueh known about the old ship hidden underneath Camelot. Considering how familiar Gaius was with it (and he didn’t strike Arthur as the sort of man that used endearments often), he imagined it was an old ship, from the Albion Wars in which the Jedi had to intervene before he was born. Which still didn’t explain how she knew it was still there — Arthur himself had no idea that the old vessel was hidden beneath the castle. When he had been a child, the Dragon Cave had been a forbidden spot, and once he was old enough not to have his father telling where he could or could not go, he had forgotten all about it.

 

The old ship was holding well, considering the circumstances — the age, the lack of repairs and the shooting they had faced to pass through the blockade. It had been a close thing, and if it weren’t for one little droid, they might have been blasted to death in their desperate escape. Even then, there was no way they would reach Coruscant like this — the amount of damage was too much for the old ship, and they had switched their course to a planet that was not Arthur’s first choice, but in which the Federation of Commerce held no space, and it would have to be enough for now.

 

Arthur wondered how long until they realised there was no one on the Citadel, and no conquering to be done. He closed his eyes in a mute prayer for the men he left behind — all of them, really, save Percival and Lancelot that had boarded with him — and for his people. The White Mountains and it’s maze of caves not only offered a good hiding spot, but could pretty much keep them fed with it’s ecosystem. Nothing could be done about the outlying villages; those who were under the protection of his lords. Still, he had to trust that those men, most of whom were far older and more experienced in open warfare than Arthur, would know what to do.

 

“You made the right choice,” Lancelot was clearly trying to comfort him, but the soothing effect of his voice was undone by the dark expression in his face. Arthur wondered if he should have left him in Camelot instead of bringing him along — surely he was worried about Gwen with each passing second — but the man had insisted that he couldn’t leave Arthur’s side.

 

Loyalty ran strong in most of Camelot’s knights, but Lancelot was the first and foremost example of it.

 

“Which does not ease my worries.” Arthur replied, finally, and the man nodded.

 

“We can only do what we must and hope it is enough…” Lancelot said, “If you excuse me, I’ll try and get some rest.”

 

Arthur gave him leave to go with his hand, and wished he could do the same. Percival was already sleeping one of the rooms, and the ship, although small, seemed far too big for their small group. In truth, he had never travelled through space in such a small number — not even ten.

 

With nothing better to do, and no wish to roll while waiting for sleep that he knew that would not come, he just sat there, staring at nothing, while replaying each of his moves in his head, trying to find what he could have done differently to avoid this.

 

It took him a moment to notice he wasn’t alone in the room — Master Nimueh was standing on the door, observing him.

 

“I’m sorry” he apologised, turning towards her. “Is there anything…”

 

“You look so much like your mother,” she said without preamble, and it borough him a pang to his heart. Arthur had heard the words often enough, but they never failed to fill him with a longing that he would never truly solve.

 

“You met her, then.”

 

“Oh, yes!” She confirmed, with a small nod. “We grew up together, in fact.” She must have noticed his confusion in spite of his efforts to keep his face smooth. “You didn’t know.”

 

“I had no idea you were acquaintances,” he agreed, but Nimueh shook her head.

 

“Friends — but I meant — you didn’t know she was raised in the temple.” Nimueh clacked her tongue in distaste. “Has you father never mentioned…?”

 

“My father has never spoken of her unless he could help it — and his displeasure in the topic made sure no one else spoke of her either,” he wanted to know more, but the habit of a life time stopped him from asking.

 

“I see…” Nimueh still seemed displeased. “Your mother and I were of an age. We grew up together on the temple in Coruscant. She was… Talented, but there is more in a Jedi than being talented, and ultimately she decided she preferred to return to Camelot. There were others paths… But Ygraine had always wanted to have a family — to be a mother — so she chose to return, in spite of the advice of the elders,” Nimueh stopped, seeming for a moment lost in her thoughts. “I often wondered… But it makes no difference. We met again during the war, and, of course, when Morgana was taken. I was deeply sorry when she passed away — more than I should have, perhaps.”

 

Arthur could hear the sorrow in her words even now, and he wondered what was the worse pain — to know someone and lose them or never knowing them at all. It mattered not, of course. Nimueh seemed to be more affected by it than he had expected, considering all things that were said about Jedi. She sighed, shaking her head.

 

“It is useless to talk about might-have-beens, or even to dwell on them,” she finished, suddenly. There was an awkward moment of silence, and Arthur, not knowing what to do, said the first thing that came to his mind.

 

“How did you know about this ship?”

 

“We used it — long ago — to creep into Camelot unseen by the Mercians. I didn’t _know_ if it would be there, but I _hoped_ and it seemed like it would attract less attention than some shiny new thing.”

 

Arthur nodded. There was no much more they could say, and the moment was interrupted by Morgana, who walked in through the secondary door, only to look at the two of them, clearly not expecting to see them talking.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and retreated immediately to the following room. He could hear her moving things around — from what he had gathered, it was a kitchen of sorts — and she seemed to be preparing something to eat. Arthur wanted to say something — anything — but he didn’t know how. He felt frustrated at the way she had gone from bossy and overbearing to a quiet stranger as soon as they stepped on the ship. He could feel Nimueh’s eyes on him, but he didn’t turn back.

 

“This is as hard for her as it is for you — maybe even harder. You should talk to her.”

 

“She doesn’t seem to want to,” he replied, and it sounded childish even to his own ears.

 

“She doesn’t _know_ how to,” Nimueh corrected, gently. “But if you try — I’m sure that with a little time, there is much to be gained. And it isn’t as if there is much we can do until we land again.”

 

Arthur nodded, but Nimueh had clearly already left. With a sigh, he steeled himself and headed to the adjoining room, where Morgana seemed to be brewing some sort of tea. She glanced in his direction when he entered, but didn’t stop her process.

 

“Can I help you, sire?” she said, her voice low and controlled.

 

“I just wanted to talk,” he said, feeling completely wrong footed. Morgana put the beverage in a mug and turned around, crossing her arms in front of her body.

 

“So talk.”

 

He shifted his weight from one feet to the other. This was even worse than he had expected.

 

“Look — I don’t know what happened, but you should know I — I was sort of looking forward to meeting you.”

 

Morgana snorted.

 

“Dread — you dreaded meeting me,” she corrected, her lips going up slightly. “When I talked about not being the welcome I hoped for, at first, I was joking — but you _really_ didn’t want to meet me. You didn’t want me there.”

 

“It’s not that,” he tried to temporise. “I’m just not used to being bossed around —”

 

“Being Uther’s son?” she asked, with a full smirk now. “Somehow, I highly doubt it.”

 

Arthur leaned his head to the side, conceding the point.

 

“Yes — Father is a force of his own — and part of the problem, really. It was just… _jarring_. I wasn’t expecting it to happen like that, and… And it is hard to know how to act around someone you have never met, but have always heard spoken of as if this person was perfect in all ways you failed.”

 

“Perfect?” she let out an amused laugh. “Not from Uther, I suppose.”

 

“Father is immensely proud of you,” Arthur said, it seemed impossible that she didn’t know.

 

“Funny, because from where I’m standing, _I_ was the misguided child that ruined his life with _powers_ and _you_ are his golden boy and everything he has left in this world.”

 

Arthur furred his brow at that. Mostly he had heard it the other way around.

 

“He is a strange man,” was all he had to say “but cares about you a great deal.”

 

“I wish he didn’t — he has a _very_ funny way of showing it.”

 

“No arguments here!” Arthur smiled, and for a moment they were both at ease. As the silence stretched, he decided to speak again. “I am sorry you didn’t get a proper reception. I can’t imagine how it must have been — returning to your home planet in the midst of attacks and falling ships — not the best way for a family reunion to start, I’m afraid.”

 

That led Morgana to give him something of a sad smile.

 

“I’ve never had a home but the temple in Coruscant, and “family” is an overbearing father that is always trying to manipulate things so I won’t stray too far from what he believes women should do and a brother I had only heard of. The Jedi have no family, we keep no ties to the outside if we can avoid it — we are each other’s families, and not our blood relations. There were no expectations, from me, about you or your planet. Camelot and its people does not concern me unless the Council says so.”

 

It was so radically different from everything he had been raised to believe — to everything that had been his way of life — and at the same time so similar: something else came first — Camelot, The Order —, his own ties and choices came only second. It was as if looking into a mirror and seeing everything reflected in a way that was diametrically opposite.

 

“I see,” he said, and she nodded once, as they were in perfect understanding. “So you never even think about Camelot?”

 

“Not really,” she shrugged, before taking a sip of her tea. “I mean — sure, I think of it, generally speaking, whenever there is trouble, whenever the council seems to think that it is important to send me news of it, but that’s about it. I don’t _look for_ information on it, certainly. If the council wanted me to know more, wanted me to have any particular relationship to it, they would say something — they are never shy to request whatever they think it’s fit — and I have long learnt to follow their lead.”

 

“So — if the council were to, let’s say, send you back without your trials, without your knighthood, straight to Camelot to marry and create alliances, you would just do it gladly?”

 

“Not gladly,” she said, with a grimace. “But I would still do it.”

 

And, somehow, since they barely knew each other, Arthur knew that this ‘not gladly’ was but a gentle way to convey that there was no chance in hell that she would do exactly that.

 

“I think you would tear the place apart before being married off,” he said, and she laughed. “You were made for so much more than those little, every day things that are to be a woman’s only destiny in so many parts of the galaxy.”

 

“Thank you,” she said, and her whole face was soft now, in a way that made her more human, more approachable and less intimidating. “It gladdens my heart to see that you are willing to see past the ways of our ancestors,” she smiled, still sweet. “But you must excuse me, now — I must return to my room and meditate — to avoid any chance of future rebellion. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

 

“Not ever!” Arthur replied, and the two of them shared a laugh.

 

He had no experience in this, but he felt that, all things considered, it had gone rather well.

 

* * *

 

 

Landing was more gentle than Morgana would’ve expected from a such an old ship, but it seemed that time had done little to diminish Gaius familiarity with it. He seemed incredibly pleased with himself as he gathered them all on the bridge.

“This is Tatooine,” he started, his voice going into the lecture mode she was so used to. “It’s controlled by Hutts, which normally would make us steer away from it, but since we don’t want the Federation to know of our movements, it makes it an ideal place. It is also a place with little law and even less to offer, so we should beware. The weather is merciless, filled with dry wind and hard sunshine, and it’ll take four or five hours walking through sand to reach the nearest settlement. It shouldn’t be hard to gather the spare parts we need, there is nothing closer to a junkyard than Hutt dominated planets -- and it is also infested with all sorts of thieves, bounty hunters, assassins and people of the worst kind. My vote is that just a pair of us leave the ship, while the rest of you stay in — for your own safety — being the most experienced ones, and the ones that are more familiar with both the place and the ship,  I suggest Nimueh and I to be the ones to go.”

  
Morgana was hardly surprised by this, although she didn’t particularly care for this line of action. She would’ve loved to see the place, even with the unhappy picture Gaius painted. Truth was, she had never been completely outside of the Republic’s domain, and the opportunity seemed to be unique.

  
“I understand what you are saying, but I cannot agree with this course of action,” Arthur said, his voice firm and regal. “It stands to reason that someone with mastery and knowledge will be needed to deal with the situation, but, even with all your training, you cannot be considered to be in top shape anymore. The exertion might be too much for you, and it would be a poor payment for your help to allow you to hurt yourself.”

  
“The Force…”

  
“Is strong, I know, but I also noticed how tired and out of breath you were during the final dash in Camelot’s palace. It would ease my mind — and my father’s, undoubtedly, if he were with us — if you stayed back, Master. I’m confident that Master Nimueh can handle the situation, even without the benefit of your guidance.”

  
Gaius rose an eyebrow, and if there was something that was memorable about this assignment, was seeing how often Gaius was gainsaid.

  
“Not doubting her competence, but I strongly believe that alone, and as a female, she might look like an easier target and…”

  
“I am perfectly capable of handling whatever…” Nimueh started, but Arthur didn’t even hear her.

  
“She won’t be going alone — I’ll go with her.”

  
“No!” In this, everyone clearly agreed. What sort of stupidity had made him suggest such a thing? “Arthur, it’s too dangerous…”

  
Morgana hadn’t yet caught the name of this particular knight, but his brown eyes were looking intensely at his king.

  
“And what sort of coward would hide while an old man risks him self?” Arthur asked, his hands on his hips. “There is no question — I will accompany Master Nimueh and I will see this land and help her in any way I can —the two of you,” he pointed towards the two knights that had come with him “will stay here and guard the ship and Master Gaius.”

“But sire...” the knight started again, but Arthur silenced him with a gesture.

“Lancelot, you came as my brother in arms and my commander, not as an escort. I do not require an escort. You will stay.”

  
Lancelot still looked as if he wanted to protest, but the taller knight put a hand in his shoulder, and he remained quiet.

 

“I see that there is no changing your mind,” Gaius said, sitting down tiredly. “Very well then — the two of you…”

 

“Mordred will come along as well — it’s an important experience to padawans…” Nimueh declared, and that made Morgana feel bolder than she had in a long while.

  
“If Mordred’s going, I want to go too!”

 

The way Gaius rose his eyebrow made her feel like a child, but she didn’t care anymore. She knew how obedience was important, but too much of it was always a danger. Sometimes, being childish could help.

 

“I don’t think…” he started, but Nimueh waved her hand in an assent.

 

“I don’t see why not — come on, Gaius, you have to let her live a little — make her own mistakes.”

 

The two masters exchanged a look, he kept his frown and eyebrows while she smirked. It seemed as if they would continue with it forever, neither backing down from their stances, and curiously enough, it was Arthur that broke the moment.

 

“I’d be thrilled to have spend more time with her.”

 

Morgana honestly could see the way Gaius deflated at it, as if it was a request he couldn’t possibly deny.

 

“Be careful,” were his only words, and Morgana felt a particular pang of joy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was part of the nature of working in a shop — and a shop for used spare parts — seeing strangers all day. All sorts of people — in the broadest possible sense of the word — came by each day. Often, the same ones would return; Kanen called them regulars or even friends. Somehow, they didn’t seemed to fit the idea of “friend” that his mother had taught him, but what did he know?

 

So, all in all, he wasn’t all that surprised when he saw a group entering the shop; it was none of his business. He just kept doing his own job and fixing one of the droids that had been left there. Screws and wires, this was something he knew a lot about. It was natural, almost instinctual, to put things together like that — through sweat and hard work. It kept him grounded, it kept him aware of his own place and his own life. Let alone, his mind sometimes seemed to jump to crazy images and ideas that did not fit the life he led.

 

Some people called those dreams — but he knew dreams, and those were not like dreams. More like… Interference in a transmission. As if whatever he was watching — his own life — got cut off and replaced by an image that didn’t matched what was to be expected. Worse; those episodes many times led to loosing control of that _other_ thing, the _secret_ thing inside him that made his hands somewhat redundant. And _that_ , as his mother had said again and again, could never be seen, he had to keep it in check, lest someone decided to investigate him and got them in trouble.

 

He heard their voices exchanging words in Galactic Basic Standard, but this was nothing out of the ordinary. With the myriad of travellers that visited Tatooine for business, its use was common, although it was hardly ever used by the local people. In his own home, his mother insisted in using the language of “civilised people”, so he had learnt it before he could speak a single word in Huttese, even if he had no memories that preceded their coming to this planet. He _knew_ , of course, that he was born in a different place and that before Kanen they had a different master, but it was knowledge, not experience — stories he had heard and memorised, not felt.

 

When Kanen called his name, he was startled — and hurried up to finish screwing the piece he was working in before cleaning his hand in his trousers and walking out.

 

“ _What took you so long?_ _”_ Kanen hissed, his adorned beard trembling with the same impatience that made his dark wings flutter fast.

 

“ _I_ _’m sorry,_ ” was all he could say, and hoped it was enough. He didn’t need any more punishments.

 

“ _Watch the shop — that_ _’s a big deal I’m closing_ ”.

 

Kanen didn’t wait for his nod before he left to the backyard with one of the people in the party. He mostly tried to watch them from his lowered eyes, pretending to work on one of the items left to repair, not wanting to intrude while at the same time making sure they didn’t take anything. There were piles and piles of objects in the shop, and most places like this suffered regularly with shoplifting, but not here — never here — Kanen was often proud to say so. His ability to notice someone was about to steal even before the other person started to move towards it was probably the only thing that gave him leverage with Kanen. A good, little, security system — and cheap than the electronic rubbish — Kanen would say. Years ago, he had been upset when he spoke of him as if he was a thing and not a person, but now he was so used to it that he barely noticed. He was a slave, and slave weren’t considered real people.

 

One of them knocked down a pile of things, and he rose his head sharply with surprise.

 

“Sorry,” the young man with dark hair said, with a small smile. “I’ll put it back.”

 

“Don’t worry, just —”

 

But the young man smiled and ignored, gesturing with his hand and the whole pile rebuilt itself in a few moments. It made him startle with awe — he had never seen anything like it — anyone like that — like _him_.

 

“Wow!” The word was out of his mouth before he could notice. It made him blush hard, so he stammered something else to hide it. “Thank you.”

 

“It was my mistake, I should be the one fixing it” he said, still smiling. “What is your name?”

 

“I’m Merlin.” He answered, holding the hand that was offered to him.

 

“Hello, Merlin, I’m Mordred — and this is Morgana,” he said, gesturing to the hooded figure next to them.

 

Morgana stepped ahead, and lowered her hood, allowing Merlin to see her face for the first time. He was stunned speechless at it — although she shared the colouring with Modded (and even with Merlin himself), there was something in her features that seemed impossibly harmonic, a beauty that he had often heard of but never witnessed. Almost too much to be real, specially since her eyes seemed barely notice him and see deeply through his soul at once.

 

“Are you an angel?” he asked without thinking, only to blush once again. He heard a scoff coming from the door to the yard, and when he turned he saw the shape of another human, invisible against the light. His amusement made him blush harder.

 

“You _really_ have to work on your lines,” he said, with a haughty voice, and that made a frown mark Morgana’s perfect face.

 

“And you on your charm — I’m sorry, Merlin, my brother seems to have been poorly educated.”

 

Merlin shrugged, in truth, he was used to worse.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, moving his eyes back to the transceiver he had been pretending to work on.

 

“We’re done here” a fourth voice, female, rang through the room just a second before he heard the buzz of Kanen’s wings. There was power in that voice. He saw through the corner of his eye as she turned back towards his owner. “I’ll return soon with the payment.”

 

“Always a pleasure to serve,” he said, but there was no real feeling in this voice.

 

“Bye Merlin,” Mordred said, waiting for him to look up and smiling. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

 

“The pleasure was all mine” he said, remembering the comfort and excitement of the man’s little display.

 

And with that, they were gone and Merlin was once again alone in the shop.

 

* * *

 

 

 

They had been walking for over an hour, Arthur and Morgana walking a bit ahead and talking in low tones while they followed when Mordred finally decided to say something to his master.

 

“That boy, on the shop — Merlin…”

 

“I felt it” Nimueh said, leaning her head to the side. “When we return tomorrow, make sure to find a way to get a blood sample — he seemed to like you.”

 

The comment was perfectly innocent, but made Mordred blush remembering the boy’s reaction to his kindness. It was weird, being looked at as if he were special, when everything he had done was fixing his own mess. Merlin was just a child — or barely out of childhood — but the way he had stared at them seemed somewhat out of place, as if it was something different than… Whatever.

 

Mordred turned to the side to see Nimueh studying him with an amused smile.

 

“He looks so much like you when you came to my service,” she said, and her voice was affectionate.

 

Mordred didn’t think so — he had been eleven when he had become a padawan, and broader than Merlin was. In fact, the boy was so skinny it was a wonder he wasn’t sick, but he supposed people adapted to almost anything. They both had pale skin and dark hair, but that meant so little — Morgana and Nimueh also had the same complexion, but it didn’t make them similar at all.

 

“You are growing soft with the years, master,” he answered, amused. “Who would have thought…”

 

“Shut up!” She said, letting out a laugh. “He is shy and quiet and _just like you_ when I first met you.”

 

“Whatever you say, master,” he answered, smiling back, and she elbowed him to make him stop, which only made him laugh harder and for a golden moment, all seemed to glow brighter, peace and understanding wrapping around them all.


	5. All-in

Arthur knew of a number of rulers that would have considered beneath them to walk back and forth under the sun to fetch ship parts in a planet that could scarcely be called civilised — that should even be called a planet as much as it was a meeting place for all sorts of criminals: smugglers, the mafia, paid assassins and so on; but he didn’t count himself as one of those. If anything, the exertion helped, taking his mind off worrying for his people, even if he knew he had laid the plans as well as he could to ensure they were as safe as they could be under an invasion.

 

Still, he was more than eager to be on his way, to speak to the Senate and to end that damned blockade once and for all. As life always found a way to complicate his plans, though, he knew he shouldn’t be surprised to find the shop empty when they entered it the following morning. Nimueh instructed him to stay back while the rest of them made enquires around — reminding him once again that his safety was paramount for this whole mission. It was but a minor setback — the door had been open, so it stood to reason that Kanen wasn’t too far.

 

Arthur heard some noises in the back, and _damn_ probably the boy had been left alone and was busy playing with something and hadn’t heard them entering. He went out, ready to complain, only to find a podracer floating on it — it was a weird thing, unlike the few models Arthur had seen in his life (as such pursuits were forbidden in Camelot, and their people weren’t particular found of speeders one way or another) this one didn’t look like a machine that had been carefully designed to beat all others, but rather a conjunction of spare parts put together in a way that made it both ungainly and sturdy.

 

There was a boy tinkering with the screws of the propeller in the back of the pod, but it wasn’t the one they had seen the day before. This one was taller, sturdy, with broader shoulders than the sorry skinny thing they had met. The pimples in his face gave away the fact that he had left childhood, and his brown hair was flat against his head as sweat poured out of him. Arthur had no idea how many employees Kanen had, but he also didn’t come across as a man that would leave his shop unless he knew it was well guarded.

 

“Hey!” he called, bothered that the boy still hadn’t noticed him. “There are _costumers_ waiting for you!”

 

The teenager rose his head, but his expression was bored as faced Arthur for a second before going back to his screwdriver.

 

“Shop’s closed, come tomorrow,” he groaned, going back to work on the pod.

 

“The door is open,” Arthur argued, but he just shrugged.

 

“Yeah, but the shop is closed — so get yourself out and come back _tomorrow_.”

 

“I have urgent need of —”

 

“Mate, I’ve said the shop is closed — and I don’t even work here — so…”

 

“Look, I know you want to be left alone to play with your toy there, but…”

 

“Toy?” the boy laughed. “This is a feat of engineering, a true racer, not that some posh prat like you would recognise it — it takes a real man to drive that thing, not some pounce…”

 

“Excuse me!” Arthur bristled. “Are you implying that…”

 

“That you are a posh prat that probably wouldn’t know what to do if it got their clothes dirty, yeah” the boy answered, and Arthur stepped up to him, using his bigger size to try and intimidate the little shit.

 

“Oh really?” he asked, with a smirk of his own. “Wanna bet?”

 

Arthur didn’t really mean to _do_ anything, but then the boy’s eyes light up with rage and he threw a punch at him. Arthur avoided it easily, and held up the boy by his wrist, twisting his arm. He didn’t give up, kicking and hitting with his free hand, so he shifted his stance, stepping forward and pressing the boys body against the dirt. The boy was still squirming and kicking, and Arthur laughed, amused against his better judgement.

 

“Ooh, why are you so bothered? I thought real man _liked_ getting their clothes dirty…”

 

“Come on, that’s enough,” said a voice behind them. It was firm and strong, but it hadn’t yet been broken by manhood.

 

Arthur turned to see the same boy from the previous day, looking quite as insolent as this one, in his brown trousers and red tunic, a blue cloth tied around his thin neck. The king hadn’t truly noticed him the day before, but he was struck anew by how much he looked like Mordred — well, and like Morgana and Nimueh, too, as if they were all different models of the same peculiar species, that seemed to be a bit more graceful than the natural human. This boy, though, had rather large ears that made him look more ordinary than the pale beauty he had seen on the Jedi. He also seemed to be fighting not to be amused by the scene, something he couldn’t really picture the others doing upon finding him in such a position, and Arthur stepped back, suddenly conscious of how childish it had been to tease the boy that way.

 

“You’ve had your fun, my friend,” he continued, stepping closer and with a tight smile.

 

“I don’t even _know_ you,” he said, bristling from his own poor judgement, that failed him once again, letting him take it out on the child.

 

“I’m Merlin,” the second boy said, while the first one rose, massaging his arm.

 

“Yes — but I don’t _know_ you — and you call me friend.”

 

This made the boy snort and raise an eyebrow at him, and Arthur wanted to hit himself for insisting on saying things that were definitely not appropriate for a grown up and a king to be saying.

 

“My bad,” the boy apologised, but he didn’t seem sorry at all. “I would _never_ have a friend who could be such an ass!”

 

Arthur gasped for a second before letting out a guffaw — he didn’t think anyone had ever quite spoke to him that way. It was strangely freeing, then, not to be known — to shed away the cloak of sovereignty and be simply a young man.

 

“Or I one that could be so stupid!” He answered back, and Merlin laughed, good naturedly.

 

“This is Will,” Merlin introduced, gesturing towards the other boy as if he hadn’t just said that they could never be friends. “And he is helping me getting the pod ready for this afternoon — was there anything in particular I could help you with?”

 

“We came to get the parts for our ship,” Arthur started, and the boy frowned.

 

“Oh — I see. I’m sorry but — we’re closed.”

 

“I’ve told him,” Will said, glaring at Arthur. “Told him he had to come back tomorrow, but he insisted he is too important to —”

 

Whatever tirade Will was about to go into was interrupted by the sound of Morgana’s voice ringing in the front of the shop. She walked outside, seemed relieved to find him.

 

“Woooooah!” Will said, letting out a low whistle at the sight of her, and Arthur didn’t know if he should feel queasy or amused at this kid was eyeing the woman that was supposed to be his sister like that.

 

“Arthur!” she said, not minding him the slightest. “ _Don_ _’t_ do that, I thought someone had taken you.”

 

“Why would someone want to take him?” Will asked, but Merlin eyed from one to the other with eyes that understood far too much for a child.

 

“The shop are all closed,” she continued, to which Will once again reaffirmed that he was trying to tell him just that. “There is a podracer happening in a couple hours, and it seems that they just _won_ _’t_ open in race days until the race is over.”

 

“Oh, _there_ you are,” Mordred said, as he walked in with Nimueh. “It seems we’ll have to wait the damn race out.”

 

“Everyone is probably already at the arena,” Merlin said, eyeing them carefully. “I would be there too, but I needed to make a few repairs before taking the pod…”

 

“Are you telling me this thing actually runs?” Arthur asked, surprised, and Merlin shrugged, his face red.

 

“Hey, I’ve built it from scratch — I _know_ it runs!” He answered seeming offended on the behalf of the pod before continuing, looking at his feet. “I’ll be running with it today”

 

“You are running?” Arthur asked, surprised. Humans didn’t generally run podraces, the sort of flying it required went far beyond the skills and reflexes of a regular human. He noticed that his three companions shared a look upon hearing it, and suspicion nudged in him.

 

“Merlin’s brilliant,” Will said, throwing his arm around the other boy’s shoulders. “He flies like no one else!”

 

“I’m alright,” Merlin replied, still not facing him. “But — yeah. I’m running. Kanen always makes me run — it gives him money, even if I don’t win, or whatever. So I run.”

 

“There is always a lot of money and profit on podraces,” Nimueh agreed, with a serious expression. “Though normally not the kind of money one would call ‘clean’”.

 

“But it is awesome!” Merlin answered, his eyes shining with excitement. “There is _nothing_  quite like flying in it — the speed, the skill it takes, the emotion…”

 

His eyes were still bright when he stopped, as if he noticed how everyone was paying attention to him, so he kept quiet. Mordred and Morgana were smiling at him.

 

“I bet you are amazing,” Mordred said, kindly.

 

“I’d love to see you run,” his sister agreed, her voice softer than he would have imagined possible.

 

“Well — you can,” Merlin said, looking at them from under his eyelashes. “There are always individual boxes for the group of workers of runners and — it’s generally just Will, mom and Kanen, but there can be _a lot_ more people in it. I don’t think Kanen would mind — he was waiting for some Issori family, but they aren’t coming, so…” He shrugged yet again. “You can come with us, if you want.”

 

Arthur was ready to say no — that it was barbaric and not civilised, but Mordred was faster than him.

 

“Well — it’s not as if we could do anything before the race ends…”

 

“I’d _die_ to see something like it,” his sister replied, excited, and honestly he didn’t think he could deny her anything when she looked that happy.

 

Clearly, he wasn’t the only one that suffered from that exact problem.

 

“We’ll go then,” Nimueh declared, not even bothering to check with him. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

 

* * *

 

 

The cheerfulness of the boys and the clear enthusiasm of the padawans made Nimueh feel as if she were as old as Master Kilgharrah. It had bee decades since she had last felt this particular sort of thrill — the anxiety brought on by the unknown.

In contrast, Arthur’s face was pinched, as if the whole trip to the stadium was beneath him, as if he needed to be serious and unyielding to maintain his dignity. If on the previous days he had made her think of Ygraine, now he was completely Uther’s child — unbowed and unbent. The bright gleam in Morgana’s eyes and the kindness of her voice as she spoke to young Merlin reminded her yet again that Arthur was not her late friend’s only child.

It hadn’t been easy, dealing with Ygraine’s loss and even less facing Uther’s burning rage. It had felt like a blessing when she — visiting by chance, in between assignments, trying to be kind and reporting what she knew about the child they had given up to the Order — was by Ygraine’s side when her second labour started. Camelot’s culture was an odd one for them both, and it had filled childbirth — a process that was meant to be natural and instinctual even when heavily aided by technology — into something hidden, mysterious, even shameful.  There, the women didn’t have the common luxury across the Republic of giving birth in a medical environment, and while it was undeniable that the midwives were specialists, they didn’t have at hand none of the most advanced equipments that might have helped. Pregnant women weren’t, usually, sent to hospitals unless the case was known to be grave beforehand.

Even if they had been attended at the hospital, after 20 years of war and just slowly starting to rebuild, Camelot’s facilities didn’t have the things she would have required — almost two decades later, Nimueh could finally admit that probably nothing would have saved her friend.

  
Nimueh, who had been born and raised at the Jedi temple didn’t have enough experience or knowledge to see that something was deeply wrong until it was too late. Her friend suffered, in pain, for days while she could do little to help. And then the baby was coming out, crying, bloodied and kicking, but the hemorrhaging didn’t diminish, thick and bright red, gushing out and tainting the bedclothes, drenching the towels, running out fast with Ygraine’s life in it’s drops.

  
The queen had been deathly pale and Nimueh — who had passed her trials, fought a war, escapade death by a hair’s breadth a million times — discovered she had never truly know fear until that moment — not until she tried and couldn’t make the Force help her, fix it, keep her alive. She cried and raged and and kept fighting against all logic, she had yelled and sweat and done everything in her power to avoid death.

There had been no peace, only emotion.

She didn’t stop as the midwife caved in to Ygraine’s last requests and gave the queen her little boy to hold. She didn’t stop as her friend called her name in a whisper, a goodbye, saying it was ok. She didn’t stop even as her heart stop beating. Nimueh had just kept trying, crying, vying with the inevitable.

Gaius had been the one to pull her out of it — they had been good friends back then — out of the room, as she sobbed and tried to return, blaming everything and everyone for her loss, thinking that nothing could be worse than this.

She had been wrong, of course, because when Uther walked into the room, once he learnt of Ygraine's demise, he had broken down in a million pieces. His reaction on that exact moment wasn't very different from Nimueh's, and it torn her apart once again, a fresh wave of sobs racking through her body,  seeing so proud a man, who had always despised her and wished her away, would allow himself to be reduced to such a state in front of her, uncaring if she became a testimony to his grief.

Then came anger — a fury she had.not even dared to imagine, far more than she could comprehend. It was as if he had all dark powers gathering around him (though he was not sensitive to The Force) as he yelled, cursed and blamed her — them — for not saving Ygraine. He forsaked all relationships to the Order, including his own child. Uther had banned all Jedi from coming to Camelot on pain of death, and hadn't they escaped quickly, he might have even claimed their lives, caring nothing for the repercussions or for the terrible retribution it would bring.  


For half a decade nothing the diplomacy of the Republic could change or bend his decree — he always pulled the local sovereignty card — and no pressure from the Senate, no threats of expulsion, no formal parley moved him. For five years, no Jedi had stepped on the planet, not until Gaius, along with Master Deaton and Master Kilgharrah himself had gone over, hidden, and showed up unannounced to demand his compliance. Uther had accepted — begrudgingly — but in turn required guarantee that Nimueh herself wouldn’t be allowed in his sector for the rest of his kingship.

 

Not that she had wanted to go to Camelot — in fact, even after those early years, much of her peace and continued path in the Force depended on keeping Uther at bay. None of them had considered it an issue — and probably she wouldn’t have stepped into Camelot even without this request. If it had worked to give Uther the false sense that he had more leverage than he truly did, so much the better. In fact, even without Uther’s presence, Camelot meant too many memories and too many pains she was not eager to relive. She would even have declined this assignment, if the council hadn’t made it clear that it was a mandatory step in her full recovery.

 

Because it hadn’t been only Uther who had crossed all lines after the death of the woman he (they) loved; in her own way, Nimueh had followed his suit and, as a Jedi, it was a much more dangerous path. She had blamed Uther as much as he had blamed her, and often prayed for his second child to be sensitive as well, and to be taken, the gold boy whose coming had been Ygraine’s joy and, ultimately, her death. And had someone asked, she wouldn’t be able to say if she wanted to have the child near her to care for or to kill alongside his father, who had never truly valued the wonderful, talented, special wife he had until she was dead and gone.

 

Many had tried to help her — to bring her back to her path, to the peace, to remind her that there was no death, but losing Ygraine had made her cynical and she shunned them all. She had stopped believing in the Republic, in the Order, in their mission. Her relationship with Gaius was just one of the many that had disintegrated into dust and anger. No words had been enough to quell her pain, and she walked away from duty, cutting corners and choosing always to travel far in order to let go, claiming it was justice and help when what she did was truly barely better than outright murder.

 

They had called her back to the temple many times, but she didn’t return until she was brought back — by force — to explain herself to the council. She had been sure she’d be expelled and disgraced, and even then, she couldn’t care. Apathy took hold with as much force as anger had before, and not until the sound of children’s laughter pulled her away from her thoughts, had she even considered her actions.

 

It must have been a rare free moment in their day, and thee were a few younglings playing on one of the inner courts, but one pair in particular caught her eyes — a boy and a girl, both human, who shared the same pale complexion and dark hair, their eye-colours complementing each other like the different shades of the sea. They seemed to be engaged in some sort of tickling war, their training swords forgotten on the floor as they ran around using their hands to bright laughter to each other. Their joys sounded like silver bells tingling and in the grace and sweetness of the girl — who was, perhaps, seven — she recognised Ygraine’s first born.

 

Her heart had ached, then, in guilty and shame — what nothing that had been told her before had managed to bring. What would her friend have said, had she seen what Nimueh had become? What would Ygraine have thought she, who put so much value in family and in bonds that were chosen, if she knew that Nimueh had left her child completely alone in a world they both knew from experience could be cold and unwelcoming?

 

Letting go of her pride and her rage, she had put herself in the council’s mercy, ready to accept whatever judgement they passed — and knowing in her heart that it mattered not, for she was guilty regardless of the outcome; that no punishment they could give would be worse than the knowledge in her heart of the enormity of her failures. Nimueh would mend her ways even if they didn’t want her anymore, even if she was sent away to live in solitude and reflect on her mistakes. She would reform herself in Ygraine’s memory even if she had nothing to lose, for her friend had left the temple for another life — not even by choice — but hadn’t forgotten its teachings or the compassion that should guide them, not even for a day.

 

Very little could go undetected by such a group of powerful Jedi, and they had seen the truth of her heart, and kept her among them, though they had reassigned her from her original specialisation to another, more clearly cut. It hadn’t been easy — her path had been torturous, painful, but also filled with a sense of purpose, of achievements she wanted to have. When she and Ygraine met again in the Force, she didn’t want to have anything to be ashamed of in front of the woman she had adored. It had meant, too, taking her first apprentice — and _that_ had been fun. For eight years she had been a teacher, and helped shape another knight.

 

By the time she was free to have another one, Morgana was already under Gaius guidance. Nimueh had hoped, in her heart, to be able to have her — teach her — create a bond; but older men had thought it would be better for both to keep them apart. Morgana’s path was not that of a Guardian, they had said, even if Nimueh had seen little to prove it. Her eyes had turned to the other child she had seen — the little boy Morgana had been played with — and even if it wasn’t what she always dreamed of, Mordred had been a blessing. He was bright, and wise beyond his years, with a rare sensitivity that had nothing to do with midichlorians. They were at once similar and opposite, and for the last six years, it had served them both well, both growing and developing together.

 

Now that it was almost time to let him go, Nimueh had begun to look forward to the next challenge, and unless she was very much mistaken — and in _this_ matters, at least, she usually wasn’t — she was about to watch her next pupil do what was meant to be impossible for his race.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a part of Mordred — a part who was fully aware that he was only nineteen and tied to very strict rules — that wanted nothing more than to feel excitement and joy and be reckless. It was not a part he listened too very often, for it offered its own dangers and difficulties, but for now, it seemed to be satiated. They had arrived together at the arena, him helping Merlin to bring the podracer that was on standby, will chatting excitedly next to them. Morgana, too, seemed happier than he had seen her in a long time, and it struck him once again how, in spite of all the circumstances, this was a much better and more pleasant assignment than the last one they had attended together.

 

He only wished he could forget it — and the things it had made him feel, the ones he had whispered in secret to Morgana during the night, the ones Nimueh had proclaimed loudly when returning, which certainly hadn’t endeared her to the council. Then again, he doubted she had ever cared much about _that_.

 

The walk to the stadium had given Merlin and Will time to share all sorts of information with them — how the races generally happened, how he lived with his mother, who they were both Kanen slaves, how Will was also one of Kanen’s slaves, but without a family to support him; how Hunith had pretty much adopted him; how Will pretended it was fine that his father had died in a careless war and he had been captured; how Hunith made the best food and what not. They found out, too, that Merlin had been living in Tatooine since he was three, but was _not_ from there; that he had been born somewhere else and been captured in the midst of the same confuse war that had claimed Will’s father. He couldn’t, though, tell them _where_ he had been born or anything about his father; which made sense. Will, it seemed, was fifteen — while Merlin was almost twelve in spite of looking younger. Arthur said they were babbling, but Mordred — and, he suspected, Morgana — welcomed the warm conversation and all the information it gave them.

 

The place was clearly filled with all sorts of people, all species meshing together and babbling in expectation as the podracers begun to be placed on the field. Mordred wasn’t completely unexperienced when it came to the sport — dangerous and insane as it was — and he felt his own mood being influenced by that of the group. It made him giddy like a child, once again. Merlin had gone ahead and talked to Kanen, and the weird dealer had received them with unctuous smiles and protests of joy that they had decided to join him. Such an honour, he said, and Mordred doubted any of them had believed him.

 

“So, is anyone up for some betting?” he asked, rubbing his hands against each other.

 

“I wouldn’t know even where to start, what would you suggest?” Arthur humoured him, trying as much as he could to pretend to enjoy it.

 

“Hmm,” Kanen rubbed his chin, pretending to think for a moment. “It would be a shame if you didn’t bet on the boy — he did bring you here.”

 

“Deal,” Arthur said — putting a beautiful silver ring on the table. “This is me — betting on the boy — and you?”

 

The Baxthrax gave a distinctively unpleasant smile.

 

“I’ll be betting on Sebulba,” he said, gesturing towards one of the racers who was being attended by a small gaggle of bootlickers, a Dug. “I mean — I believe in the boy and in his potential, but Sebulba will win.”

 

“You seem awfully sure,” Arthur noted, and Mordred disliked the man even more than before.

 

“Sebulba _always_ wins,” was his only answer, with a tiny shrug. “He bought himself from his former master with the winnings of his racing, some twenty years ago — not someone to be trifled with.”

 

Arthur couldn’t hide the distaste in his face, but whether it related to the idea of having been led to bet without knowing all the facts or if it was simply the concept of slavery, Mordred couldn’t tell.

 

“I think Merlin will surprise you,” said Morgana, her eyes gleaming with mirth. “I’ll up my brother’s bet with you — a private bet between us — Merlin against Sebulba.”

 

Mordred frowned after hearing this, as far as he knew, Morgana had nothing save her lightsaber to bet with — and putting it on a bet would make them too conspicuous. He raised an eyebrow at her and then at Nimueh, but his master seemed unconcerned as she winked.

 

“Let’s hear it then — what do you have in mind?”

 

Morgana grinned, her face full of confidence that she seemed to have quickly learnt from Nimueh.

 

“If Merlin wins — if _I_ win —, I’ll have the boy — and his mother,” she said, and Kanen didn’t show any emotion as he replied.

 

“What if _I_ win?” he asked, smirking.

 

Morgana leaned forward with a smile so coquettish that Mordred could never have pictured it in her face, for the first time, he indeed took notice she was a young woman, not only a Jedi or a friend, and seemed to know full well how to use it to her advantage.

 

“Well — if _you_ win — you get me — one more slave.”

 

“Morgana!” Mordred said, shocked as Kanen licked his lips at the thought.

 

“I won’t allow…” Arthur started, but Morgana shushed him with her hand.

 

“Tsk, tsk, baby brother” she said, with a coo. “My life, my bet, my rules.”

 

“Nimueh!” the two of men called at once, but the Jedi merely raised her eyebrow.

 

“Her body, her rules” she agreed. “We will _not_ interfere.”

 

Kanen watched the exchange closely, before answering.

 

“If I may make an amend to it,” he said, and Morgana allowed him with an imperious gesture that betrayed her family connections. “Wonderful as you are, you are _not_ quite worth two slaves.”

 

Mordred could only watch in horror as she bit her lip, pretending to think, because he felt her intent as clear as day.

 

“The boy, then.”

 

“No,” Kanen said, having already predicted it. It was clear that the boy was far more valuable for him than the mother, his talent in building things alone was worth a fortune. “I have a luck dice here — well play for it.”

 

He picked up the object from one pocket, smiling in a threatening manner.

 

“Blue for the boy, red for his mother,” he said, showing all sides so they’d be sure that it was evenly split by both colours. It was chipped and old, clearly overused, but there was no obvious trick in it.

 

“Fine by me,” Morgana answered, with a wave of hand, and Kanen threw it on the table they were sitting on.

 

Someone else — someone who didn’t knew her as well, who didn’t have Jedi reflexes and training, might have missed the swift move of fingers that Nimueh did as the dice rolled, but sure enough, it stopped moving with the blue face ahead.

 

“Bah,” Kanen said, with a grimace, clearly not the outcome he had wanted — as if there had ever been any doubt about it — but his smile was back, as a predator, as he looked at Morgana. “It doesn’t matter — Sebulba will win, and _I_ _’m_ looking forward to the winnings of this little bet.”

 

“So am I,” she agreed, leaning back lazily on the chair, not looking worried at all that she was risking her life for a boy they barely knew.

 

“Bah,” Kanen repeated, before he moved away, clearly off to make nice and pretend to be pleasant with the occupants of another box.

 

“What were you thinking?” Arthur demanded to know as soon as he was out of the door. “You can’t just risk your life — I doubt father — _This_ is why Gaius wanted you to stay back, wasn’t it?”

 

Morgana, naturally, seemed to care nothing for his whole angry rant.

 

“Merlin will win — I know it,” she said, her eyes on Nimueh. “I can — the Force tells me he will win.”

 

As his master nodded, Arthur turned towards her in clear annoyance.

 

“You were supposed to be responsible for them!” he complained, and Nimueh raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“If Morgana says he’ll win, then he will,” she told him with firm finality. “And we will have saved him from a life of slavery or an early death.”

 

“ _If_ he wins,” Arthur grumbled. “Now, if _Sebulba_ wins — that’s what I worry about.”

 

“He won’t,” Nimueh and Morgana declared together, and shared a look. “He won’t even finish,” Morgana continued.

 

Mordred frowned. He was no stranger to precognition, but even visions could be misinterpreted. It took a very specific talent to see clearly like this, and he had never known Nimueh to have it — but it seemed clear to him that, at some point, the two women had agreed on this course of action, even if without any communication. He wasn’t one to doubt his master, but it was a dangerous game they were playing. He doubted that it would have the approval of the council — hell, he doubted it would have the approval of _anyone_ and he didn’t even want to imagine the havoc that would be created if Sebulba _did_ win and it came out that a Jedi had become a slave to a junk dealer, albeit if her tacit approval. In fact, he doubted Uther would care the slightest for what Morgana had said.

 

“You better be right,” Arthur said, his face closed, and Mordred privately agreed with him, but the two women paid him no heed.

 

* * *

 

 

If Morgana was ever called into answering what had guided her actions, what sort of logical path she had followed to end up offering herself as a prize, she wouldn’t have been able to explain it — it was a surely, a certainty, a peace and a sense of rightness that had put the words in her mouth and emboldened her to such a move. She had heard so often, though never from other Jedi, that there were particular disadvantages in being a female — a human female at that — and much was said of womanly wiles, but it was the first time she had tried to use them. It was _not_ in discordance to The Code, but it would surely raise eyebrows, specially after such drastic measures. Still, few times before she had ever felt so much as if she was one with the Force, as if it was acting through her and not under her hands.

 

How vividly she had seen it — Merlin, winning; the boy out of his old blue-and-red garbs and into the robes of an initiate; the pod that she had never seen but knew in her heart to be Sebulba’s crashing against the ground a few meters before the finishing line. It was _not_ wishful thinking; it had nothing to do with the few moments she had ever allowed herself to think of — a Jedi lives in the now, not in the past or future, not dwelling on what-ifs and what-will-bes.

 

There was some strong pull in this boy, a thing that was less like the shiver she had felt the year before when first witnessing an untrained and gifted child, and more like a full tingling. She had wondered the if others had felt it too, but it was clear by Nimueh’s reaction to her gimmick that she had. Good thing, too, because by herself Morgana had no authority to enlist anyone to the Order. As the master declared her intentions to speak to Merlin and wish him luck before the race, Morgana followed her, Mordred at her heels.

 

“The boy…” she started, not sure of what to say as the platform took them to ground level.

 

“Is very gifted,” Mordred agreed. “But even then, Morgana, you shouldn’t…”

 

“You did well,” disagreed Nimueh, looking at Morgana. “His fate isn’t to stay on this forsaken planet, and it is clear that you have _not_ made this decision out of a particular sense of compassion — you were listening to the Force and doing its will. Perhaps I have been too hard on Gaius — all that meditating has helped you.”

 

Morgana felt herself blush slightly, but then they were on the ground and their focus was elsewhere.

 

Merlin and Will were ending the finishing touches on the racepod when they arrived. The smaller boy gave them a blinding smile, that light his whole face.

 

“How are you feeling?” asked Mordred, kindly.

 

“Excited!” Her friend helped the boy to climb on the pod.

 

“Remember to trust your instincts,” Nimueh warned, her face soft and caring. “They will guide you well.”

 

Merlin nodded, before putting on the helmet.

 

“I’ll do my best,” he said, and Morgana felt the urge to show him how much they all trusted him to win it.

 

“Believe in yourself, Merlin” she advised, gripping his hand. “You _will_ win this race.”

 

“Thank you,” he said, smiling again. “If you say so, I know I can do it.”

 

It was better than she had expected, and as they walked back, Nimueh regarded her carefully.

 

“Maybe I was short-sighted,” she said, as they rose again. “You will make a wonderful Consular — and a cunning Ambassador.”

 

And while Morgana _knew_ it was meant as a compliment, somehow, it didn’t feel like it — not when she remembered some of the terrible missions they had to attend to, working for politics instead of for fairness, and she in spite of everything — of anything that she had heard or learnt — she felt, in her heart, that this was no longer to be her fate.

 

 


	6. Shadow Strike

 

 

Nimueh had seen her fair share of races in her time, and even the Boonta Eve Classic a time or two, so she knew how dangerous the circuit was. It was filled with sudden drops and dark caves, it required far more than the regular skill that a pilot — even a Jedi pilot — had. That Merlin would be running in it and, from what she had gathered, not the first time, was one more proof of his talents.

 

She waited along the others as the flags came to the track, and ignored how Will kept explaining the fine details of the ceremony to the three young people that were part of her company. She noticed that Merlin’s mother, Hunith, had arrived, too, and watched it all with a worried gaze. And yet — her expression was kind and soft, and it gave Nimueh the impulse she needed to come and talk to the woman — she would not be so cruel as to just snag the boy away.

 

“I have heard your dealings,” the woman said, before she could open her mouth, and Nimueh liked her immediately for her frank speech. “I know you plan to take my boy away from me.”

 

There was infinite sadness in her eyes, as if she knew herself powerless to do anything about it. Nimueh knew she could trust their secret with her.

 

“Many call me master, but I own no slaves,” she said cryptically, and as the woman’s blue eyes met her without understanding, Nimueh allowed her to see the double-lightsaber  that had remained hidden under their robes. Hunith’s eyes grew wide, before her features eased, clearly feeling more at ease around her. “It’s the chance of a new life — a life without hiding, a life without lies, that I’m offering your son.”

 

Hunith nodded and said no more.

 

“Has he displayed… talents other than piloting?”

 

It was obvious that the habit of hiding ran deep within the slave, and she said nothing, her mouth set in a hard grim line as she looked outside, to where the flags were now starting to leave the track. Then, as if realising that there was no point in lying to Nimueh, she spoke in a whisper that betrayed pride and fear in equal measures.

 

“He could move objects before he could talk — before he could walk. I often found him, still a newborn, with toys and things I had _not_ fetched or that were supposed to be out of his range.”

 

“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” she answered, with a sigh, although it _should_ be surprising as she couldn’t remember having ever heard about children so young showing that much aptitude. “There is just _something_ about Merlin.”

 

“Yes,” Hunith agreed, love shining through her eyes as the light turned green and the race started.

 

For a moment, they were silent, observing as the pods zoomed ahead, heading towards their goals. Merlin’s pod, however, didn’t move, which the commentator was ready to notice. After a few gasps and some moving around, it speed up quickly, almost a blur as it went out of view. Their eyes moved from the track to the screens that allowed them to see as the runners continued their course, but Merlin wasn’t in them yet, a few seconds meant the difference between winning and loosing a race, and he was already starting badly.

 

Still — Nimueh did not doubt Morgana’s vision. The boy would win, one way or another. The _how_ was the only thing left to discover.

 

She saw Hunith flinch as Sebulba made a particularly harsh move, pushing another competitor out of the race and straight into the rocks, the pod smashing against the rock walls that limited the track. It felt like a good time as any to speak.

 

“Who was his father?” she asked, finally, returning to their previous conversation.

 

She hadn’t expected the way Hunith’s face morphed, moving from anger to grief to defensiveness before answering.

 

“ _I_ carried him, _I_ gave him birth, _I_ raised him.”

 

Nimueh smiled, understanding all too well how important _this_ was.

 

“Yes — and did a wonderful job, too.”

 

The compliment clearly caught her off-guard, before she shook her head.

 

“There was no — before, there might — but the time doesn’t fit — he was dead long before…” She sighed, fighting with her words. “There was no man in my life by the time I got pregnant. Not for years.”

 

_That_ made Nimueh frown, it was an unknown data. Some species were known to take years to breed, but none of them could impregnate humans. No father — it was no surprise Hunith was so defencive about it; for who would believe her?

 

Nimueh, however, didn’t doubt her for a second.

 

Because she _knew_ what that meant — that strength, that uniqueness, those were more, far more than the marks of a common Jedi. It might even be…

 

But she was getting ahead of herself. She needed to check the boy before claiming something as outlandish as that.

 

They remained silent, all eyes glued to the screens and Merlin finally joined the rest of the runners, passing some of them by quickly; his reflexes were excellent and not even a collision a few meters ahead threw him offtrack. There was more to it, though, than good piloting — he had moved even before it could’ve been foreseen by a common person, as if he _knew_ , somehow, that it would come.

 

Hunith held her breath as he was shown flying into the dark caves, and Nimueh wondered what they looked like from inside. It was no surprise no human would play this game, the whole thing was built on their weaknesses. And yet — Merlin emerged a bit ahead than he was before, gaining positions with every passing second.

 

Sebulba was still ahead, of course, by a good space. He was already going over The Coil, and it seemed unlikely that Merlin would reach him anytime soon.

 

No one was surprised when, a few moments later, Sebulba crossed through the arena, starting his second lap. After two more pods, came Merlin; his engines in full blast. They all cheered, in spite of him not being in the lead. As soon as he was out of sight, though, they quieted again. He easily got the third place while running through the Starlite Flats, but no one could change positions while entering the narrow curving canyon that made up the section known as Waldo Flats. As they emerged into the Mushroom Mesa, cutting through different rocks, Nimueh saw first hand exactly _why_ Sebulba always won — not because he was the best, alone, but because he was ruthless. In spite of being on the pole position, he quickly threw an object behind, and, being aimed just right, it got to the fan in his closest opponent’s pod, being thrown inside. The pilot lost control and clashed to one of the rocks, and the explosion resulting from it brought the whole thing down, far too near Merlin for comfort, but once again the boy moved away easily.

 

It was almost too much for Hunith, and she set down, hand over her heart. Will tried to console her.

 

“He’s fine — he is _always_ fine — he wouldn’t be caught like that,” he said, rubbing her back. “And he’s flying so well — I bet he’ll even finish the race this time.”

 

“What do you mean, this time?” questioned Arthur, turning around. “He never even _finished_?”

 

His face was murderous, but Will was clearly used to worse thing than a ugly expression.

 

“It’s a hard race — are you even watching?”

 

Arthur glared at Will first, and then at Morgana, but she just grinned at him. Nimueh didn’t blame him, she had no idea who she would’ve reacted in his place, without the knowledge of _why_ Morgana did what she did, without the understanding of the Force that allowed them to make this decision, but it didn’t matter. There were now less than half of the competitors still on the run, and this had been just the first casualty. More might come, and she doubted anyone would try to punish Sebulba for it. This was the way of life in those things.

 

She could, however, understand why a mother would be worried upon seeing it.

 

Merlin was now crossing the Canyon Dune Turn for the second time, and while the first time around had gone smooth, he now was hit by one of the Sand People’s shots. Nimueh watched as his left propeller stopped, but somehow, he managed to both keep the pod in control and rework things so it would work again. Quick thinking would be important in his life, even if he didn’t end up being who she thought he was, and even more so if he were. He crossed the Bindy Bend without issues, and Sebulba was within his sight through the whole canyon length that followed. Still, the champion was much more experienced, and used it to his advantage as they entered the Hutt Flats, his motor working at full speed and they barely saw him as he crossed through again.

 

Merlin’s real chance came when Sebulba bumped on the floor when he entered the Ebe Crater Valley. He didn’t lost control of his pod for more than a few seconds, but it was enough for Merlin to close on him. Even through the canyons, Merlin kept on getting closer to him, until that when they reached the Dune Sea for the last time, they were side by side. Sebulba lost no time in throwing his pod — bigger, sturdier, clearly top of line — into Merlin’s smaller one, but the boy gave no inch. He tried it one last time before they reached the Arch Canyon, and Sebulba kept his lead, though not by much.

 

Even the padawans looked tense now, as they watched them twisting and turning around each other in the midst of narrow walls. Nimueh could hear their accelerated heartbeat when the caves meant the saw nothing of what was going on; but both emerged unscathed as before to face the shots from the Sand People, who ricocheted uselessly around them, but managed to catch the following runner. They remained together, none gaining true lead during the rest of the canyons, until Merlin did a sharp manoeuvre, cartwheeling his pod through the corkscrew to avoid Sebulba's traps, and finally, as they were about to emerge, he lured the champion to move his pod too close, which led the Dug’s pod side to hit the wall, slowly him down.

 

Merlin pressed his advantage, speeding up through the Hutt Flat, and it seemed that while Sebulba was still trying to get ahead, his pod had been more heavily damaged by the hit than it first appeared, losing height with each meter ahead, until he was left on the ground at the bed of the long dried up lake at the same time they finally saw Merlin through their own eyes, almost reaching the arena, and the boy safely crossed the line, winning at last.

 

Nimueh let out a sigh of relief she didn’t even know she was holding, and Morgana turned around, throwing her arms around Mordred, and even Arthur screamed in joy while tears ran down Hunith’s cheeks, a sad smile on her face.

 

“Take good care of my boy,” she whispered, looking at Nimueh.

 

And _that_ she had all intention of doing.

 

* * *

 

 

 

She was proud of her boy, she truly was. She had always believed he would do it one day, and the happiness all around the box had been enough to assure her that he would be well taken care of. Master Nimueh seemed harsh, but kind, and really, there was little more she could’ve wanted for her child. During those early days after he was born, Hunith had living in both fear and hope that someone would show up and ask her to relinquish her child, but the war had created some ill will towards the Jedi on their sector which in turn made tracks difficult.

 

In the end, in spite of all that she had lost to wars — her freedom included — she was glad of it. The war meant the Capital had never learnt of Merlin’s powers, it meant being taken away from her home, but it also meant keeping her child, which would never have happened had they remained in Essetir. It had been a swift attack — pirates — and their whole village was taken away. Most of them had been sold to different masters in the otter rim, but Hunith had managed to keep both her boy and Will, poor Will, whose mother had died during the raid. Kanen sold him during the last dry season, since he needed the money, but he was still close, just working across the street to a food vendor.

 

He was going to leave, now, but she had had twelve years with him, more than she had dared to expect.

 

It had been selfish of her, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. She would change it, now, she would let him go. It would be a good life — well, a better life than the one they had now that Kanen was their master.

 

So she fought to keep her emotions in check as she descended, as she congratulated him, as they took pictures and gave him his prize. Kanen, of course, would keep most of it, but it mattered not, because the biggest prize wasn’t the one the Hutt were giving, but the one the young woman, Morgana, had risked herself to give him.

 

Merlin had spoken often of leaving Tatooine, of seeing the galaxy, of doing good things, of helping people, freeing slaves.

 

He would be able to do it now.

 

“It is a pity,” Kanen says, self-absorbed as ever. “I would have loved to have you in my household.”

 

Morgana snorted at this, but when she extended her hands, he kept his part of the bargain and gave her the controls.

 

The other boy — Mordred, if her memory served her correctly — eyed Kanen carefully as he walked away with Master Nimueh and Arthur, to solve whatever problem that had brought them into Tatooine in the first place.

 

It takes but a few seconds before Morgana spoke again, the happiest and saddest words Hunith would ever hear.

 

“It’s done — it’s off — he is free now.”

 

Merlin had just approached them, then, and he frowned.

 

“Who is free?” he asked, looking around, and Hunith couldn’t help herself, and she hugged him.

 

“You, my darling, you,” she told him, finally, and she could feel the shock rocking his body.

 

“Me?” he asked, and turned around on her arms. She let go of him, trying to clean her tear-stained face, for that was not to be a triumph, not a defeat.

 

“Lady Morgana bet with Kanen that you’d win the race — she convinced him to free you if you won, risking her own freedom.”

 

“I’m no lady,” the younger woman said, blushing, but she turned her eyes on to Merlin. “But I did bet on you — I did… — I wanted you to be free..”

 

His eyes were glued to her then, as if he had never even considered that anything as wonderful as her could even exist. Hunith herself could barely believe the girl’s compassion and her surety — but then again, the shaved head and the braid should be enough of a clue for someone who was raised in one of the core worlds. Whatever the others might say — and there were always those gainsaying it, specially here, on the outer rim,— that was the proof that the Jedi were around to make the galaxy a better place for everyone.

 

“I was right before — you _are_ an angel!” He exclaimed, finally, once he stopped gapping.

 

It made the padawan giggle, and the boy next to her laughed as well.

 

“I’m _really_ not,” she insisted, her eyes full of mirth. “But I wanted to help you — you are a very special boy.”

 

That made Merlin freeze, and his eyes quickly moved towards his mother.

 

“It’s alright, my boy,” she said, rubbing his back. “You can trust these people.”

 

“Yeah,” Merlin agreed, immediately, and it made her heart pang, specially when his eyes moved towards Mordred’s with the same adoration as before, for her child was long gone and the young man he would be shone through his eyes, ready for a future, for a life, she could never share. “Yeah, I really can — because, mom, _they_ _’re like me._ They’re, like, my people.”

 

Hunith could do little but give him a watery smile.

 

“Yes, sweetheart,” she said, sadly. “They really are.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Merlin felt high on excitement all day, and didn’t truly notice anything wrong until they headed home in the evening. By the time the race had ended, and the parts had been found — one last job for Merlin before freedom — and secured in a cart, both suns were low on the horizon, and it was much to risky to cross the desert. Jawas could be nice, but never when there was something to be gained; and Sand People were mostly inside, but there were always a few roaming around, ready to bounce on any prey they saw.

 

So Hunith had invited them all to spend the night in their home. It would be crowded, sure, but Merlin didn’t mind sharing and it was always good to have company. Will, on the other hand, couldn’t go with them, as his Master was making him work the night shift in his greenhouse. His mom had always been happy before when having company, but now she seemed conflicted. It made Merlin frown. She was off to prepare food as soon as she was inside, and Mordred and Morgana had offered to help while he remained with Arthur and Nimueh, standing on their tiny balcony, as Nimueh helped him cleaning his scrapes.

 

“It’s just a pinch,” Nimueh said, before putting one small device against his arm and sure enough, it pinched Merlin.

 

“Ouch,” he said, reflexively, and Arthur laughed.

 

“So you’re brave enough to nearly be exploded on track, but afraid of a little needle on the outside?” he asked, and Merlin closed off his expression.

 

“I was just surprised,” he justified, but clearly the man didn’t buy his answer. What a prat.

 

“Thank you,” Nimueh said, before eyeing the two of them for a moment. “Didn’t you say earlier you would show Arthur something?”

 

Years of practice meant he knew a dismissal very well when he saw one, so he gestured with his head to the inside, leaving the woman alone. Merlin wasn’t completely sure what to make of her — she had been incredibly nice to him all the time, but there was something scary about her, almost feral, which was a weird combination, if he ever saw one. He led Arthur towards his small working space, and pulled up the cloth he had used to cover the project he had been working on. Merlin was proud of his little project, and it would help his mother a lot.

 

“This is G-ORG” he said, turning the droid on. “Well — that is his designation — I  prefer calling him George.”

 

Arthur seemed amused that he had given a proper name to the droid, but Merlin didn’t mind. He was way too used to be treated like a thing not to give it a name. Merlin turned on the droid, and it was confused for a moment before he sat himself.

 

“Master Merlin, what a surprise!” he said, his voice seeming truly pleased in spite of being completely electronic.

 

“Hey, George,” he said, and the droid stood up. “He isn’t ready yet — it’s a protocol droid, to help mom.”

 

George took notice of Arthur for the first time and moved slowly, still feeling the ground underneath him. Merlin had changed the feet joints since he had last turned it on.

 

“I don’t believe we were properly introduced,” he said, his voice both friendly and stern. “I am G-ORG, named George, a human-cyborg relations droid. I’ll be pleased to assist you in any way I can.”

 

Arthur seemed torn between amusement and awkwardness, as if he wasn’t all too used to droids. He gave George a sharp nod.

 

“I’m Arthur,” he said, finally.

 

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” George announced, proper as ever. He then turned to Merlin. “Is there anything in particular you need, Master Merlin?”

 

“Not really,” he said, not knowing what to say now. He looked around, not wanting to turn the droid off — he often had wondered what that must feel like, and doubted it would be good. “But — we have four guests. They will be staying the night. You may get started on getting things set for us to sleep later.”

 

“It will be my pleasure!” George replied, ready to serve as ever. It was exactly what he was meant to do, but it made Merlin feel a bit discomfited every time by his eagerness to do someone else’s biding.

 

“Dinner’s ready,” his mother voice announced, and Merlin was too well raised to delay for even a moment.

 

“Let’s go,” he said, and the two of them were off.

 

* * *

 

 

Mordred didn’t think he would ever get used to the hard task that was taking children away from their parents and thanked everything in existence that he wasn’t to be a recruiter himself. Although this was better, much better, than his previous experience, the fact that they had to spend far longer around the aggrieved mother was harder than what he could have expected. The Chief had been in pain, but in the midst of so much loss, he hadn’t been able to handle too prologued a farewell, and the boy had been tiny — but Merlin was almost as old as Mordred had been when he went into Nimueh’s service.

 

It would be a hard sell to the council — for starters.

 

But the talent was one that could not be denied — the midichlorians count was above anything anyone had ever seen.

 

So, hard as it was, it had to be done. It was one of the few moments he felt thankful that he was still just a padawan, and the hardest part of it wouldn’t fall on him. He didn’t know how much he could take of consoling yet another child on the way to Coruscant.

 

“I want to ask you something, Merlin,” Nimueh started, her voice sounding far more light than he would have expected. “When you dreamed — because I’m sure you dreamed of it — when you dreamed about being free; what did you want to do?”

 

The boy sort of shrugged, and favoured Morgana with a smile, still thankful for the gift she had bestowed him.

 

“I don’t know — becoming a pilot, I think,” he said, finally.

 

“Well, you do have the talent for it,” Arthur smiled as well, and for a moment, Mordred could even believe this was a friendly meal.

 

“If you could be anything — do anything — you would be a pilot?” Nimueh asked, disbelief in her voice.

 

“Well —” Merlin blushed, betraying his true age. “It’s stupid…”

 

“Don’t say that,” Hunith interrupted. “You can tell them.”

 

“I promise I won’t laugh,” Nimueh agreed, her whole face soft. Merlin’s eyes darted to Arthur, and the king seemed solemn for once, very unlike the teasing and prodding man he has been towards the child from the get go.

 

“Nor I,” he guaranteed, and it seemed to be good enough for the boy.

 

“If I could — if I had — well… I’d like to help people, to make life better for them. So, I think… If I could be _anything_ — well, I think I would like to be a Jedi.”

 

There was a pregnant pause at the table, while everyone but the boy (and, perhaps, Arthur) knew that it was far more than a dream, that it was his destiny, and one as clear as the movements of the stars.

 

“What if I told you you _can_ become one?” Nimueh asked, her face growing serious.

 

“It’s impossible,” scoffed Merlin, with a shake of his head. “I could never…”

 

“Nothing is truly impossible,” she answered, her voice firm. Finally, it was time. “Can I fully trust you, Merlin?”

 

“Yes,” he answered without a breath, frowning at them. “Yes, of course.”

 

Nimueh gave them a look, and picked up her long lightsaber from her belt, placing it across the table.Even turned off, even with all the details and encryptions, it could not be confused with anything else. Mordred and Morgana followed her suit, putting their own smaller and more discreet hilts on the table, and Merlin’s eyes became huge with shock.

 

“You are — You are _all_ Jedi!” he exclaimed, looking around, baffled.

 

“Not me,” Arthur said, grinning, and Merlin let out a delighted laugh.

 

“No, you are too much of a prat,” he agreed, before looking at them again. “This is why you could put that pile up without touching it!”

 

Mordred could only smile at him, his excitement was infectious.

 

“Yes — and I bet you can do the same thing.”

 

“Yeah,” he agreed, before looking contrite and glancing at his mom. “But no one is supposed to find out about it.”

 

“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” Morgana said, putting her hand over his. “You can train — become like us.”

 

Merlin looked around, as if he just couldn’t believe on the day he was having. Mordred could only imagine how it felt like, but the good energy coming from the boy made him feel more at ease.

 

“It is not an easy life, nor an easy path,” Nimueh warned. “But — if you’re willing — you can come with us and become a Jedi yourself, like you always dreamed.”

 

“This is…” he was clearly at loss, overwhelmed by emotions, and at that very moment, Mordred could not understand why Jedi spent so long trying to deny good feelings as well as bad ones. “Can I go?” the boy asked his mother.

 

Hunith was a strong woman, this much was obvious. Her face betrayed none of her pain as she turned towards him.

 

“It is your choice — yours alone,” she told him, before taking a deep breath. “But it means a life in control of yourself, it means no more hiding, no more lying…”

 

“A better life for us,” he nodded, and it was the one thing that it took. “You’re coming too, right?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Morgana said, sorrow shining through her expression. “I tried — but Kanen wouldn’t free her.”

 

Merlin stopped, quiet for a moment, before giving a small nod of acceptance of her words.

 

“My life is here, Merlin” Hunith said then. “My future as well.”

 

“I don’t want to leave you alone!” Merlin explained, and Mordred looked away, not wanting to be privy to that moment. His eyes met Arthur’s, and there was something in there too, a softness that he hadn’t seen before.

 

“I won’t be alone,” she guaranteed him. “All our friends will still be here — and Will. Someone’s gotta take care of Will.”

 

That got a small smile out of Merlin, and finally, he nodded towards Nimueh.

 

“I’ll come with you.”

 

As he said these words, Mordred felt a sense of rightness he had never experienced before. It had been no coincidence that had led them to enter Kanen’s shop — this was what was meant to happen all along, this certainty was the reason for Morgana’s apparent recklessness. This was the path for him — and, somehow, for them all. This was what they were meant to do.

 

* * *

 

 

Merlin felt lucky he didn’t have much — and still, packing a life for leaving was hard. It was not about the things he had to take — there were few enough of those, and Nimueh had warned him that possessions were discouraged — it was the harsh reality of saying goodbye to everything he had ever known.

 

Arthur, Morgana and Mordred had left at first light to bring the items back to the ship and starting the repairs, but Nimueh had given him longer to fix up his things and say his farewells. He had first gone to George to tell him about his impending move, and promising he would have his mother keep him. He had been such a great friend, in spite of being a droid and of being so uptight. Then he passed by his neighbours, and the news of his freedom had already spread. All of them had good wishes to sent him, and some even gave him tokens to remember them by. It was a hard life they led, but he knew they always had each other and would care for Hunith.

 

Will was in front of his house with Nimueh and his mom when he returned. His mom had his rucksack with her, and Nimueh was clearly ready to leave. He held his friend — almost brother — close for a long while, not knowing what words would possibly be said.

 

Finally, he settled on the obvious.

 

“Take care of Mom for me.”

 

“I will,” the older boy promised, a smile on his face, as if he wanted to make sure no sadness was felt on this moment. “You go and be amazing as we all knew you should be — and don’t forget to put that stupid ponce in his place.”

 

Merlin laughed at it, shaking his head at Will. Then, it was time to talk to his mother one last time.

 

She held him close, and Merlin tried to commit it all to memory — the softness of her warm body, the smell of her hair, the kindness of her voice.

 

“Be good,” she admonished him, and ran her hand through his hair, pulling it behind his ear where it had grown long. “Always remember I love you.”

 

“And I you,” he said, his voice trembling. “We will see each other again.” He vowed, and she smiled.

 

“I hope so,” Hunith agreed, and caressed his cheek. “Now, go. Your destiny awaits.”

 

And, with that, Merlin let go of his mother and went.

 

* * *

 

 

It was too easy.

 

Now, his padawans and even the young king might not see it, but it had been _far too easy_. They had found a ship that had been left over twenty years before. Not only it was fully functional, but also it contained hard gold, as if ready for a escape.

 

They had gone pass the blockade with little damage, in spite of the time the ship was left to rot.

 

The first shop they had entered had parts, from what he heard.

 

And met a boy who seemed to have more midichlorians in him than had ever been considered possible; a boy they had somehow managed to free from his slave master.

 

It was just too easy.

 

It just _wasn_ _’t right_.

 

Gaius was an old man, a man used to hard situations, and to battles. _That_ was not how things usually happened.

 

Morgana had a brightness in her eyes when she returned, as if she had lived a whole adventure in the few hours since he had last seen her, and it made Gaius weary — but, then again, she was fine, and he wasn’t going to fuss. It was probably better not to know. Mordred seemed at ease, too, and eager to start working on repairing the ship, Lance volunteering to help. He was a good boy, Lance, a knight to make their name a proud one.

 

Percival, too, he knew, and he enjoyed how quiet the big knight was. Even Arthur seemed more at ease, his skin tanned golden by the twin suns of the planet.

 

Everything was in place when Nimueh finally showed up, a boy in tow.

 

Gaius had been expecting it, of course, but it still surprised him at how small and thin the child was. Morgana had told him the boy was twelve years of age, but he was small as a child of eight. There was no denying his power, though, it ripped through Gaius as a storm.

 

It was a wonder and a danger at once, at least like this, untrained and unknowing what he was capable of.

 

Merlin — that was the boy’s name — lost no time to go and help the older men with fixing the circuits that had been damaged by time and fire, and Gaius walked outside for a moment, trying to escape the noise and commotion inside the ship.

 

The growing age made him grumpy, he knew, but right now the silence and peace of the desert seemed like the best option. He allowed his old legs to enjoy the particular warmth offered by the place as he walked away from the door, further into the dunes. From what he had heard last, they were almost ready to go, but they could wait for him a bit.

 

He tried, hard, to maintain his peace — he searched tranquillity inside his heart and in his union with the Force, but it seemed to be disturbed, unquiet as he was.

 

Gaius was unsurprised to open his eyes and see a bike speeding towards them — someone clearly over it. He was ready when the dark-clad man jumped out, his lightsaber in hand, as he met the other man’s lightsaber — shining red.

 

It could only mean one thing.

 

One thing that wasn’t supposed to exist for thousands of years.

 

There was no time to think on it, though, only to react. For all the decades he had in service, he was _not_ too rusty with his duelling, moving quickly to avoid blows that were far more inclement than anything he had ever experienced before.

 

Part of his mind could do little but warn Nimueh, and he hoped they would just get on with their activity. He could handle it. The blocked any further thoughts from his mind, as he continued to move, sand quickly dissolving under their feet, trapping them.

 

It gave the other man — younger, more nimble — the advantage, but Gaius was not one to give himself up. Whatever people might say of Consulars, they were not faint hearted.

 

He moved his lightsaber left, in a quick parry as he got ready to run towards the ship — it was not a fight he could win, he wasn’t too proud to admit it, but the younger man did a somersault, coming to stand in his way. He could see his face now — clearly human, underneath the fire melted skin and the hard tattoos in black and red, the first hint of hair returning after a shave, shining like fire under the sun.  He couldn’t be older than thirty-five, by Gaius calculations, but the malignant glint in his eyes were timeless. A master of rage and hatred, one that should have long been gone.

 

Gaius was doing his best to avoid being killed, both hands at the handle, when he saw Morgana rushing out from the door. Stupid girl.

 

“Start flight!” he yelled at her, before blocking another attack. When his eyes returned to the spot she was on, Morgana was gone.

 

He could only hope they’d heed him.

 

Gaius made first contact, burning the side of the man’s shoulder, but it didn’t slow him down — if anything, made him angrier, as if the memory of burning was what fulled his rage.

 

The sound of the engines turning on and the ship starting to take off were like heaven.

 

Gaius stepped back, glazing upwards for a bit, calculating his escape at the same time he held his opponent back. It was a matter of timing everything just right.

 

He made a particularly aggressive move forward, and while sloppy, it was unexpected, and caught his opponent off-guard. It was obvious that he hadn’t expect him to stray from the perfect form III he had so far presented, and Gaius used the opportunity to impulse himself upwards in a full Jedi jump as he hadn’t done in years. It wasn’t quite perfect — but he managed to get a hold of the lowered platform, and used his right leg to start propelling himself onto it, and they were rising fast, there was no way that the man could get him now.

 

He wasn’t exactly right.

 

Gaius felt a sharp pain — worse but cleaner than anything he had ever experienced, in is left leg. There was a moment of stillness, before all skin, muscles and bones exploded in feeling, fire burning through him, and he almost fainted from it, taking a few seconds to notice how Percival was now pulling him in.

 

Gaius looked down only to prove to his incredulous mind what his head and his body already knew.

 

Under the knee, where frazzled and seared cloth seemed to have melted with the flesh, his leg was gone.

 

 

 


	7. Challenging Call

After the chaos of battles, races and escapes, space felt too quiet. The vastness between stars and planets felt empty of life in a way he had never felt before.

How strange it was that twenty-four hours ago he had felt somewhat carefree, cheering on someone else’s life, his problems not forgotten — he could never truly forget them — but not so staggering that made it impossible to breath.

And now — now — Arthur felt as if he had failed them all.

It made no sense, of course: those were not his people, but they wouldn’t be in such a situation if it weren’t for him. Guilt ate him away every time he heard the low, almost faint tones of Master Gaius voice.

Many people said that Jedi Consulars were not as brave as the rest, but Arthur couldn’t believe it — and the old man was facing his injury with as much courage as any warrior. He didn’t complain, not ever, and seemed at peace with his loss.

Arthur couldn’t imagine ever going through such loss, specially with the same amount of grace.

It had affected all of them in different ways — Master Nimueh looked grim, worried, as if the weight of the universe rest on her shoulders. Gone was her smirk, replaced by a frightening stare. Her voice had gone sharper, too, as if she no longer had the strength to play nice (or, at least, what passed up for nice in her case).

Morgana had become softer than he had ever imagined possible, helping the old man with everything she could, tending to his wound with both regular supplies and whatever powers the Force has granted her. Her face looked pale all along, so completely opposite from the fierce woman he had seen on Tatooine.

Mordred had grown quiet, his face as blank as his master’s. He had taken over Gaius place in piloting the ship, and all his skills were turned towards driving them as fast as they could.

Percival had grown restless, tired of the confines of the ship, and kept to himself. Arthur suspected he blamed himself for not pulling Gaius up faster, for allowing it to happen at all.

Lance looked as guilty as Arthur felt — they would never be completely able to handle the idea that a man old enough to be their grandparent had been injured and hurt in trying to protect them. It made them feel helpless, like some sort of damsel in distress, and this was a very uncomfortable feeling for a knight.

They were all worried and ragged, and it burned with their problems, and it took a while for Arthur to notice what it truly meant.

There was no one there for Merlin. They had plucked the boy from his home, from his mother, from his life and now none of them had the time or the right frame of mind to worry about him.

It made Arthur feel guilty all over again, even if he had done nothing to put the boy in such a situation.

Arthur found Merlin huddled on a seat in the living area, a thick duvet around him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, not knowing what else he could say.

Merlin just shrugged.

“Is he going to be okay?”

There was no need for names, they all knew who he was talking about. Arthur wondered, not for the first time, how terrible it was for someone so sensitive to witness such pain. He sat down next to the boy, resting his elbows on his knees and sighed, trying to make himself be both honest and confident.

“Probably,” he answered, finally. Merlin looked at him as if he didn’t truly believe him, and Arthur sighed. “I don’t… I’m not an expert. A injure like that, from a regular blade, would cause heavy bleeding, and that generally makes for a quick death — but that was a lightsaber, so…” he shrugged. “I don’t know nearly enough about lightsabers, but I think that the fact that they sear skin means they’d avoid bleeding, so there is that — it’s what we do, on my planet, when someone suffers an injury like that — we burn the area up first, to keep it clean, then we sew the skin back up.”

Merlin nodded, slowly.

“I’ve seen it done,” he said, simply, and even he, who had been trained to be a knight from an early age, felt like he wasn’t able to handle watching it. The boy was brave, they had to give him that. “Old Simmons — he was another slave, but not Kanen’s, Halig’s. — his leg got stuck in the machinery on the moist farm he worked at, and it had to be cut. Matthew — he was always the one to take care of all of us — he needed man to hold Simmons down while he burned it down, and he needed help with the rags,” Merlin shuddered. “It was awful.”

“Well, mercifully, in this case, it was quick,” Arthur replied, there was nothing much he could say other than that. “When we get to Coruscant, he’ll be properly looked at, and they might even need to cut a bit more, but… He’ll be fine.”

“He won’t get his leg back, though,” Merlin sounded sad about it.

“No,” he agreed. “But he’ll be fitted for a mechno-leg in the Capital. It’s not the same thing, but… It’ll be alright. After a while, they say you can’t even notice the difference.”

Merlin’s grimace showed what he thought of that, and Arthur couldn’t fully disagree. They remained in silence for a while before the boy moved again, pulling the cloth closer to his body.

“Are you cold?” Arthur asked, then, feeling sorry all over again. Tatooine was a warm planet, scalding hot, even, being under two suns, and space could feel cold even for those accustomed to it.

“Sort of,” he answered, shuffling a bit. “It is… It isn’t like flying,” he said, finally. “It’s… uncomfortable. Quiet. Weird.”

Arthur gave the boy a sad smile.

“First time I went to Coruscant, I was eight,” he told him. “I had been so excited, I had dreamed of seeing the Capital, of travelling through space, ever since I was this size.” Arthur gestured to show the table’s height, and Merlin smiled a bit at it, as if he found the idea of tiny Arthur amusing. “Then my father finally thought I was old enough — grown enough — to be presentable. And, of course, I had thought it would be an adventure — but, no. It was just boring — a long time of boring, with adults all around, no one to give me any attention and I was scolded often for wandering through the ship when I was meant to be a good boy and stay on my cabin until we reached Coruscant.”

“I bet it was awful,” Merlin agreed, and Arthur doubted he would have fared much better in the circumstances, the boy was clearly wilful.

“It was — and my father — he just seemed to be sucking on a lemon every time he saw me outside of my room. He said I was humiliating him, and decided I couldn’t be trusted to attend the ceremony we were going to watch after all — so I left the ship only to be left with servants in the apartment. Nothing like I had imagined — I was so angry. And my father, of course, didn’t care at all about my temper. He was just disappointed all over again. He was never a very patient man, my father,” Merlin giggled a bit at this, “Nothing like your mother.”

That made the boy grow serious again, and Arthur could have hit himself for his stupidity. It was not the time to talk of such things, not with them being apart for the first time in their lives, and possibly forever.

“I miss my mom,” he confessed, after a long silence.

“I never knew mine,” Arthur replied, without thinking. “So I wouldn’t even know what to miss.”

That made Merlin stare at him with wide eyes, seeming even sadder.

“That’s… Terrible!” He seemed a bit at loss of what to say, and that made two of them. Arthur couldn’t understand what he had been thinking to even mention it, it wouldn’t help at all. “At least… At least I can see my mother again, right? In the future?”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, hoping this would cheer the boy up, though he wasn’t sure the Jedi Order would approve of it.

“And you can come with me — and I’ll tell her you never knew your mom — and she’ll care for you, just like she does for Will,” Merlin vowed, and in that moment, Arthur didn’t doubt him. He looked so fierce. His caring touched Arthur’s heart, and reacted the only way he knew how.

“She’ll like me better, though,” he teased, trying to get himself to control his feelings, to change the moment “because I’m a king and a knight.”

“I’ll be a knight too,” Merlin countered, swatting away his hand. “A Jedi Knight, so she’ll still like me better.”

“Yeah — but I’m charming,” Arthur replied, trying to amuse the boy again.

“You’re a clotpole, that’s what you are!”

“That’s not a word — not in this language at least,” he was amused at the boy’s sass, and it was so easy to tease him.

“It’s a word in Hut,t” Merlin’s face was serious. “It means big-headed-king.”

Arthur let out a laugh and rubbed Merlin’s head forcefully, making the boy giggle again.

“Thank you,” Merlin said, once he stopped, and Arthur looked away, not wanting his face to betray the softness growing around his heart.

“Any time,” he answered, truthfully, even though they both knew that probably there wouldn’t be a next time.

* * *

 

Nimueh had been arrived to Coruscant in defeat before. She had arrived in Coruscant with bad news. With hurt comrades. She had arrived at Coruscant in many, many ways, so many times she had even lost count, but never before had she arrived with such a heavy heart.

Because there was no doubt of what the man attacking Gaius had been.

And now — now it’d fall to her to inform the Council that their greatest enemy had returned from the shadows.

She took a deep breath before she got things in order to leave. Her eyes moved towards Arthur for one last time.

“Can you…” she stopped again, hating that she even had to ask. “Can you keep Merlin for me for a while? I need… The council needs to be informed about what happened in Tatooine and — with Gaius hurt — we might need…”

“It’ll be a pleasure,” he answered, and he was clearly being honest. “Come on, Merlin — you’ll stay with us at first, alright?”

“Thank you,” Morgana said, still pale, and holding her brother’s arm with tenderness. Her hand moved to cup Merlin’s cheek in turn. “Be good, will you?”

“I’ll try,” the kid was honest, that much was clear. At any other moment, Nimueh would have laughed at it.

Then Mordred was lowering the ramp, and it was time to face the trials of the day.

Unsurprisingly, Uther was waiting for them at the hangar, his face grim. Senator Aredian, the Junior Representative for Camelot, was behind them, looking concerned. Nimueh was glad she didn’t need to deal with either of them, as they had never seen eye to eye on anything. Her job was to just stand there and wait for her leave to go. The one thing she hadn’t been expecting was for Chancellor Annis to be there too, her face stern. Those who didn’t know her well would say she was proud or even cold, but Nimueh had never known a nicer and more just woman — she believed in the Republic like few people did, and always accepted the vote of the majority even when she didn’t agree with the actions herself. The way she had looked — sad, defeated, disappointed — when she had instructed them on their mission to end the Huk War had left a lasting impression with Nimueh, who disliked politicians on principle.

“Arthur!” Uther’s voice rang through the place, and Nimueh stood back, waiting for their reunion. “I was so worried.”

It surprised her, the way the senator threw his arms around his son’s shoulders, and by the look in his face, she wasn’t the only one to think it an odd action. There was something undeniably regal about him from when they first met, but on that moment, he looked as young as he was, a boy left alone in a terrible situation, taking comfort in the arms of his parent.

“Those are dark times,” Aredian declared in his soft but powerful voice. “When corporations like the Trade Federation think they can limit planetarian rights — I shudder to think that they would go this far.”

“Yes,” agreed Uther, letting go of his child, as if first noticing they were in public. “Yes — it is an outrage.”

“I hope we can solve this once and for all,” Arthur replied, once again every inch the king. “The people of Camelot should not be subjected to such a illegal measure — and with no good cause other than rightfully denouncing the greed of the Trade Federation.”

Aredian cleared his throat, and Uther looked around for a second, before returning to his son, his face pinched.

“Arthur, may I introduce you Chancellor Annis?” he said, looking as if he would prefer doing anything but that.

“It’s unfortunate that we meet under such circumstances,” the woman said, offering her hand to Arthur, who shook it vigorously. “I have heard many good things about your rule, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, your Honor,” Arthur answered. “And thank you for being so kind as to send us Jedi help,” he gestured to them.

Uther’s face was more pinched than ever before as he glanced towards them, but there was little he could do about it.

“They were invaluable in our escape,” Arthur continued, and that gave Uther a pause.

“Yes — and were is Gaius?” he asked, looking for his old friend. “And Morgana, for that matter?”

Arthur’s face was transformed in a grimace.

“There has been an incident.”

Uther grew pale, looking from Arthur to them, searching for a clue.

“Master Gaius has been somewhat gravely injured,” he continued, trying to keep some control of the situation. “Morgana is attending to him inside the ship as they wait for the arrival of a medical team.”

“How unfortunate,” Aredian said, but there was no emotion in his voice. “Nothing life-threatening, I assume?”

“There’s no reason not to believe he will make a good recovery,” Arthur answered, tersely. “Still, Morgana thought it better…”

“Nonsense,” Uther dismissed at once, turning then to Lancelot. “Go and fetch my daughter, boy.”  
  
The nerve of the man! As if Morgana were a stick to be fetched by a dog and not a whole person, with her own duties. As if Gaius hadn’t been Uther’s true friend even when he least deserved it, and allowed him more liberty than he ought to have, as if his injuries gotten in the service of Camelot’s crown were unimportant when compared to Uther’s wishes. She bristled to say something, but Mordred put his hand on her arm, stilling her.

“I’ll go, Master, and I’ll stay with him.”

She gave him a grateful look, and Mordred walked back to the ship, in step with Lancelot.

“I don’t think we would ever had managed to escape if not for the actions of Master Nimueh,” the king continued, ignoring his father’s antics and directing his words straight to the chancellor. “Her help was invaluable.”

Nimueh wished he had said nothing, because now it was inevitable — she had pulled up her hood in the hope of passing unnoticed, but there was little point in it as Uther and Aredian both stared right at her. She allowed it to fall and her face to become visible. In spite of his long career and all political intelligence Uther had learnt, he still couldn’t control himself at the sight of her.

“You,” he spit, but Nimueh paid him no mind.

“Your Honor,” she said, directing her words straight to the Supreme Chancellor. “I must report to the council immediately. Matters have become far more complicated than we expected.”

“How so?” Uther demanded to know, but she had never bowed to his authority before, she wouldn’t do so now.

“You have my leave to go,” Annis said, paying him no more attention than Nimueh had, and from the corner of her eye, she saw his face close with the insult. “The Republic thanks your for your service, Master.”

Nimueh leaned her head forward, accepting the dismissal, before turning to Percival.

“If you may — tell my padawan to meet me at the temple. The matter is much too urgent.”

“I’ll make sure Mordred and Morgana are over as soon as Gaius is in capable hands,” Arthur guaranteed, completely ignoring his father’s expression of anger. “There is much you will need to discuss,” he turned back towards Annis. “Now, about the situation in Camelot…”

Nimueh turned to leave, but before she could reach the small shuttle that was meant to take her over, she could hear Annis voice.

“I have called a special session of the Senate to hear your plight — you know how worried…”

The blockade had been a considerable issue when they had left, but, somehow, it didn’t seem nearly as important now. There was more that the council needed to hear.

* * *

 

When Mordred and Morgana finally managed to arrive at the Temple, Nimueh was already inside the Council chambers. They were admitted inside immediately by the Temple Security Force, but none of the masters took notice of their arrival. Mordred could see their serious faces as they heard Nimueh’s words. Master Deaton looked pensive, as usual. Master Alator face was completely impassive. Master Kilgharrah’s face was as hard to read as usual, his reptilian features bore little resemblance to their human counterparts; the long snout and sharp teeth making him seem almost wild. His clawed hands were intertwined in his common resting position, and nothing betrayed anything but perfect peace. The most stark difference was on his wings: while most species would have small, butterfly like wings or even feathered ones, his seemed to be made of hard leather. There, the passage of time could be seen: in the dry skin and lustreless scales.

“He was well trained in the use of The Force and in Jedi Arts,” Nimueh was saying, her face grim. “I believe — and Master Gaius agrees with me on it — that this man was a Sith Lord.”

“Impossible!” Declared Master Alator, shaking his long, conical head. It made the tattoos in his face look like tears or drops of blood. “The Sith have been extinct for over thousand years.”

Nimueh’s raised eyebrow showed what she thought of it, but she didn’t counter his argument.

“Have they, though?” the smooth voice of Master Peter, Nimueh’s former mentor, rang through the room. “Their knowledge was not lost — and it isn’t against all possibility that someone might have stumbled on it.”

It was clear that his former student was grateful for the support, but Master Deaton was quick to speak as well.

“It might be the case — the dark side is always calling, and there are often those who are weak-willed enough to be seduced by it,” He took a deep breath, and Mordred could feel how it cost Nimueh to keep her calm in the face of the barbed comment. “Still, not all who succumb to the dark side may be called true Siths. A true Sith — I don’t believe they could have returned without us knowing.”

“Maybe you are right, Master Deaton,” Kilgharrah said finally, his powerful voice carring through them all. “But the Dark Side clouds everything — it isn’t always easy to see through it. It may well be that the Siths have never been vanquished, but that they merely hid themselves from us.”

The Master’s yellow eyes were calculating as he turned towards Nimueh once again.

“We will do everything in our power to discover the truth behind these events and learn the true identity of Gaius’ attacker.”

Mordred turned to leave, reading the words for what they were — a dismissal. Nimueh, however, just stood her ground, staring at them.

“Is there more you’d like to say, Nimueh?” asked Master Peter.

“There are two other things I would like the council to consider,” she said, her voice almost metallic. “First, there is the matter of Master Gaius — his recovery will take some time.”

“A very unfortunate event, for sure,” Master Deaton said, but it was clear he saw no point in the conversation. “But nothing to be concerned about, considering what we’ve heard. He will be back to the full of his abilities soon.”

“Yes — in the mean time — I would request that his padawan would remain in the mission, under my guidance, if need be.”

The silence rang through the chambers, and it was clear that the council didn’t like the suggestion. Mordred should have expected it. A look to Morgana showed she very much liked the idea, and that she hoped, against all logic, that it would be allowed.

“Morgana may remain in the mission,” Kilgharrah said, finally. “But she must learn to be alone, now, if she ever hopes to pass her trials. It is an important part of a padawan’s training to be able to face missions alone. We might have been remiss in it and allowed Gaius to keep her close for far too long — it is time that she had her own mission.” His eyes turned towards Morgana, then, carefully assessing her. “Are you ready to comply with our wishes?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice firm. “As a matter of politics, the blockade in Camelot will still need a Consular.”

Kilgharrah gave her a regal nod, before turning towards Nimueh once again.

“And the other matter?” he asked, and Mordred could tell he was curious even if his features were smooth.

“I found a vergence in the Force,” she declared, finally.

“A vergence?” he echoed, his eyes pining her down.

“Around one person?” Deaton asked, and all the room was clearly hanging to her every word.

“A boy, yes.” She nodded firmly. “His cells… They have the highest concentration of midichlorians I have ever seen in a life form.”

“Interesting,” Peter said, his green eyes narrowing. “Did you find out who his father was?”

She shook her head, and Mordred waited for the rest.

“Her mother guarantees there was no father — it is possible that he was conceived by the midichlorians.”

“You refer to the prophesy of the one who will bring balance to the Force — the one who is made of it alone,” Deaton said, frowning slightly. “You believe it to refer to this boy?”

“I don’t presume…” She started, but Peter let out a small laughter at that.

“Ah, but you do, my dear student — Your opinion on the matter is clear.”

For once, Nimueh didn’t bother engaging with her mentor, her eyes still on Master Kilgharrah, knowing that he was the one that needed to be convinced.

“I merely request the boy be tested, Master.”

The rest of the council, all ten of them, looked at each other, but the Grand Master didn’t move his eyes from Nimueh.

“You want the boy to be trained as a Jedi?”

Nimueh’s face was open and earnest as she replied.

“Finding him — the chain of events leading to it — it was the will of the Force, I have no doubt. I might have had my missteps along the way, but they have only made me more keen to separate my own hopes and desires to those of The Force. There is something about the boy… He shows far more talent than one untrained should, and it has been a hindrance in his life, far more than a blessing — and shouldn’t we, in our infinite compassion, want to help those people? I believed it was our duty to offer to those children the chance to follow the path we consider to be the one towards balance, and keep them in light even if they, ultimately, are not meant to be Jedi. Isn’t this the whole point of having an Academy? Making sure that children are raised in the path of righteousness and serve The Force instead of trying to make it serve them, even if they don’t become knights?”

They remained silence at that, and Mordred was shock that she would dare to chastise them that way — why he kept on being surprised by it, he did not know.

“Bring him before us, then,” Kilgharrah said, with a small nod. “And we will test the boy.”

“Thank you, Masters,” she said, with a bow.

Mordred and Morgana did the same, ready to leave. They were already at the door when Kilgharrah’s voice rang again.

“You’ve grown wise, Master Nimueh,” he said, and she turned again towards them.

“Thank you,” she said, bowing again. “May The Force be with you, Masters.”

“And with you, Master Nimueh,” he answered, and they with it, they left.

* * *

 

  
When Arthur was a child, he used to suspect his father made everything harder for him on purpose. As he grew up, he realised that it was only partially true — Uther often made life harder for everyone, it was how he kept the standard of his army, his knights, his planet — and that every time he had done so, was because he knew that he didn’t have long to make Arthur into a fitting King. Without a brother or an uncle that could be directed towards the service of the Republic, Uther had but until Arthur’s majority to make him ready for the crown he would bear. At the age of fifteen he had been crowned, his father leaving to protect their people and conduct politics from the Senate, far away from the realities of every day in Camelot. Making things difficult — and having Arthur surpass the difficulties — was part of his training as a future King — as a future Senator. It was the price to be paid for things the privilege they had — the weight of responsibility.

Now, on the other hand, he suspected his father was just making everything more complicated because he could.

“To be perfectly honest, I think there is little chance that the Senate will do anything about this invasion,” he was saying, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe the short-sightedness of his peers.

“Chancellor Annis seems to think there is every reason to hope,” he reminded his father, but Uther gave him a look of disbelief, as if by believing in someone else’s words above his own he was betraying him personally.

Arthur suddenly found out that he had not missed Uther at all.

“If I may interrupt, Your Majesty,” Aredian said, from his seat, and after Arthur turned his face to him, he continued. “Chancellor Annis holds very little power. She is mired by baseless accusations of corruption — there are those who don’t trust her to rule the Senate. Her resolution to the Huk War…” he closed his eyes and shuddered slightly. “It left a bad taste in the mouth of many Senators who believed it was her duty to intervene, instead of bow to the vote of bureaucrats. Alas, the Republic is not what once was.”

“Indeed,” his father agreed, immediately. “The Senate is full of greedy, squabbling delegates with no interest in the common good — and even less in Justice — Huk War was proof of that. From the way they have been acting, I fear that bringing this invasion to attention will lead to the same outcome — Camelot being considered guilty and forced to comply with terms that would ruin us.”

And with that he could not argue, there was something deeply wrong with the Senate of late, from the reports he got — not only from his father, but from his own intelligence men. Arthur loved Uther well, but they had never seen eye to eye on politics, and it had seemed expedient to find someone who was loyal to him first to observe the developments in the Senate, lest his father decided to withhold information “for his own good” — it wouldn’t be the first time he did so.

“What other options do we have?” he asked, rubbing his forehead.

“We could take it to the courts…” His father started, seeming as defeated as Arthur felt.

“They take even longer to decide on things than the Senate!” Arthur complained, and the two of them shared a look of despair. “Our people are suffering — maybe dying — once the Trade Federation finds their hideout in the caves — and the outlying villages — we don’t have the sort of time the courts would need to hear our plea.”

“I’m afraid we might have to simply accept their occupation for the time being,” Aredian told them, with a tiny shake of head.

“That is something I cannot do.” Arthur answered, and for a moment, he hated how the politics had changed his father. The king he had known wouldn’t have bowed his head to the invasion of anyone — he had, indeed, fought a war to guarantee it wouldn’t happen — and now…

“You could call for a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Annis,” Uther said, finally, squaring his shoulders.

“She has been our strongest supporter!” Arthur was baffled at the suggestion, shocked that his father would use such underhanded methods to get his way — but perhaps, all things considered, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Uther had been pragmatic as a King, and there was no hope of gain in the Senate if he wasn’t ready to compromise at least some of the values that Arthur, himself, held in highest regard. Camelot — alas, all of Albion — was a universe apart, a culture apart, guided by a strong code of conduct and the values of its Knights; while in Coruscant honour seemed to be discarded as a vice rather than a virtue.

“Which may be causing more harm than good — don’t you see?” His father shook his head, and Arthur felt like a boy once again. “She is not well regarded right now, and her support might be exactly what will lead many to side with the Trade Federation.”

“A stronger Supreme Chancellor may indeed help us,” Aredian agreed. “A person that is strong-willed enough to take control of the bureaucrats, to give us justice. A person the Senate truly believes in.”

“She had helped me — helped us immensely. Without Annis, I wouldn’t even be standing here. I don’t feel comfortable with simply pretending she did nothing but hindrance us and stab her on the back.”

“Then all you — we — can do is to plead our case and hope for the best.”

It was little enough, but while there was hope for an honourable resolution, he’d cling to it.

 

* * *

 

Mordred believed in Merlin’s potential, he really did. He had seen with his own eyes — felt with his own mind — the power within him. He tried as much as he could to quell any questions he had about the council seeing it, though, as he went to King Arthur’s temporary quarters to retrieve the boy.

“Can I say goodbye?” he asked, and he made such a sorry sight, so clearly overwhelmed by everything that Coruscant was and everything the coming audience represented, that Mordred couldn’t say no to him. The Order had been waiting for his arrival for thousands of years, it would wait a few more minutes.

Merlin stood there, on the other side of the glass door, trying to catch Arthur’s eye while Uther made a whole speech about something (Mordred had no wish to find out what), twisting his hands, a picture of anxiousness.

“Put your heart at ease,” Mordred advised him, resting his hand in the boy’s shoulder. “Let it be your first lesson — there is no emotion, there is peace.”

Merlin looked at him and frowned a bit, as if he couldn’t truly grasp what this meant, but nodded anyway. Some of the tension left his shoulders, and Arthur finally saw them. The young King seemed to have no issue in leaving his father speaking alone, standing up quickly and walking towards the glass door.

“You’re going then,” he told Merlin, with a kind smile.

“Thank you,” the boy said, blushing. “For everything, before.”

“Don’t mention it,” Arthur said, rubbing the top of Merlin’s head.

“I think — I hope — I’ll stay there and then… We won’t meet again.” He looked to his feet as he spoke.

“Oh, but you promised, remember?” Arthur answered, his hand on his hip, a smile still in place. “So, we will meet again.”

“I guess,” Merlin said, looking up again and smiling. “I hope.”

“And you, too, Master Mordred,” the King turned his eyes to him, raking through him in a clear appraisal — and it happened before in the few days since they first met, but now it made Mordred blush. “I hope we’ll meet again.”

“Not a Master,” he mumbled, unsure of how to react. “But, yes — we probably will — after you have your heirs and come to the Capital to serve.”

Arthur grimaced at that, as if the idea was distasteful to him, before shrugging.

“I hope it doesn’t take that long — depending on how it goes with the Senate… We’ll need good warriors by our side.”

Mordred couldn’t help but smile, the man was impossibly charismatic.

“We’ll serve as well as we can, your majesty, if that’s what the Council wills,” he answered, softly. “Now, it’s time we go.”

Arthur offered him a hand, and Mordred shook it firmly.

“Good luck with the Senate,” he said, fighting himself to keep in peace when the touch had seemed to awake longings long dormant. “May the Force be with you all.”

“Thank you,” he said, before turning back towards the boy. “I wish you luck in your trials, Merlin — I’m sure you’ll make us all proud.”

At that moment, Merlin could have easily light up all of Coruscant with this smile alone.

* * *

 

Nimueh was at ease as Merlin walked inside. She hadn’t been invited to join in, as she was not — and probably would never be — a member of the council; but it mattered not. Talents such as Merlin couldn’t be denied — indeed, she couldn’t remember hearing about such talent before.

“What if he doesn’t pass?” Mordred asked, and right then, Nimueh couldn’t say if he was worried on the boy’s behalf or hers.

“Merlin will become a Jedi, Mordred. I promise you that.”

It seemed it was not the sort of response that her padawan needed to ease his heart.

“Don’t defy them again, Master,” he asked, his face sad. “If they refuse…”

“Mordred,” the boy was so good, so compassionate, that it might be his downfall. “I listen to The Force first and to the council only later. I will do what must be done, if it comes to this.”

He sighed, tired and having already heard it before.

“If you just stick to the code, you would be on the council,” he muttered, his eyes looking outside, at the sunset.

“Oh, Mordred,” she exclaimed, her voice low. “If I could do this, my life would have been much, much easier. But there are many paths to the will of The Force, even outside of the Dark Side, and mine goes far beyond strictly following the rules — I have been taught too well to follow it blindly — and if it means walking alone instead of having their full support, if this is what I am supposed so to, I will. I will not allow pure love of tradition stand in the way of helping those in need.”

Mordred didn’t reply again, but from the quiet, melancholic look in his face, she knew he had understood it all too well.

* * *

 

Merlin had been in many uncomfortable situations in his life, but none of them had been quite so uncomfortable as the one he was in just then. There were twelve Jedi around him, all completely silent and with their faces blank, as they requested him to do a series of activities — find the correct object in a row, move spheres with his mind, and now saying what the dark, bald Jedi was seeing in his screen.

It was at once challenging and silly.

“A ship — then a cup,” he announced, wondering how much longer this would last. “A ball. A mace. A speeder. Sand. A ship again.”

The man put down the screen, nodding towards their leader. Master Kilgharrah was impressive, even for a person who had grown in the midst of all sorts of species. His leathered wings seemed huge even closed as they were.

“How are you, youngling?” he asked, and his voice reverberated through the walls.

“I am cold, sir,” he answered, honest. “And tired.”

“You are afraid,” the Jedi announced, and Merlin felt himself blush, part in anger, part in shame.

“You have asked me to do things I spent my whole life being taught to hide in front of an audience,” was his reply. “Afraid — yes. And uncomfortable. And cold.”

If lizards could smirk, he bet Master Kilgharrah would be smirking, he knew. The Jedi on his left had rolled his eyes and opened up a direct grin, which made his blue eyes crinkle. The dark-skinned one on his right, though, seemed offended at his words.

“You should be mindful of your feelings,” the dark-skinned one said, and Merlin immediately thought of his mother, and how she would scold him for the answer he just gave.

“Your mind keeps dwelling on your mother,” said a fourth Jedi, whose top of the head was elongated into a conical shape, tattoos marking his cheeks and forehead.

“Are you afraid to loose her, Young One?” Kilgharrah asked, and Merlin couldn’t avoid letting out a bitter laugh.

“I’ve lost her already, sir.”

“And yet, you are afraid of losing even more,” he told Merlin, who couldn’t deny it — it would be useless.

“Right. And what does that mean?”

The reptilian leaned backwards, speaking with his booming voice.

“Fear leads to anger — which leads to hate — which leads to suffering — and that can lead one to the dark side. And I can sense much fear in you.”

Merlin bowed his head, for this he could not deny — would not deny.

“Does it always lead to darkness?” he asked, in a whisper.

“I don’t know, young one. You gave us much to think about. You may now go.”

Merlin bowed to the council, because he had not forgotten his manners, and walked out, unsure of what all of this had meant.

* * *

 

Arthur had awaken as soon as the sun had come up, anxious and eager for his audience with the Senate. The nervous energy seemed to keep him on the move, and he missed his daily drills — nothing worked better to calm a mind than physical exercise, the feeling of a sword acting as the extension of your arm. He worried about their chances of convincing the Senate, he worried about his people, he worried about his friends — and even about Master Gaius.

There was nothing he could to for the latter, though, and little he could do for the others apart from following what had been accorded.

It was not the first time Arthur went to the Senate chamber, but it never failed to take his breath away. The place seemed endless, with thousands of Senators and aids sitting in a cone formation. Each had their own circular lounge, and they stacked one next to the other, above, bellow and to both sides in continuous circles that resembled an immense hive. It had been the intention of the architect, he knew, for here was where the senators, the bees of the Republic, created and maintained their way of life. The Supreme Chancellor’s platform stood in the middle, raised high and visible to all. Chancellor Annis looked fierce standing in it, and there was no hint of the dark shadows under her eyes he had seen the day before.

“The Chair recognises the Senator from the sovereign system of Camelot,” she said, as soon as the initial formalities were over.

Arthur barely felt as their platform moved, floating to the centre of the house, all eyes upon them. His father stood up, as regal now as he had been when Arthur was a child and he ruled Camelot with an iron fist.

“Supreme Chancellor, Senators,” he started, his voice calm. “A tragedy has occurred in our homeland. It started with the over-taxation of trade routes, and has now engulfed out entire planet in the oppression of the Trade Federation.”

“This is outrageous!” Yelled Bayard, one of the Trade Federation’s most well known barons. Their platform was immediately moved towards the centre, a bit bellow theirs. “I vehemently object to this statements!”

“This is not the moment for your speech, senator,” Chancellor Annis admonished Bayard. “Please return to your station.”

It was clear to Arthur that Bayard had no respect and no wish to comply, but he couldn’t simply gainsay the chancellor, so their platform was taken back.

“I have brought before you today Camelot’s current king, my son Arthur, who will speak in our behalf.”

Arthur stood up, then, at the same time as his father sat down. There was some warm applause for his presence — young he may be, but he had proved himself in a number of tournaments when growing up, and was well known as a warrior, even if still untried as a ruler.

“Your excellencies. Supreme Chancellor. Representatives of the Republic,” he started, with a nod towards the present. “I come here today under the gravest of circumstances. I have travelled here, crossing a hostile blockade that almost destroyed my ship, because Camelot has been invade by the droid armies of the Trade Federation.”

“I object!” Bayard yelled again, as if he couldn’t keep still and hear the truth being spread to all galaxy. “There is no proof! This is incredible!”

“If you may wait for me to finish, Senator…” Arthur asked, patiently, and but the man paid him no heed.

“I recommend a commission to be sent to Camelot to ascertain the truth behind this claims.”

“How can you possibly investigate anything when you haven’t let me finish exposing the situation? How, without my whole side, can you have a primary line of enquire?” he asked, shaking his head angrily. “For I came before you today to expose my side of the situation, Senator, not to get into a screaming match with you.”

Bayard looked chastised enough, and Arthur continued.

“A week ago, now, on the day the Jedi Ambassadors sent by chancellor Annis were scheduled to arrive to negotiate with the Trade Federation, Lord Alined informed me he didn’t know anything about any ambassadors sent by the Republic to promote a parlay between us. Less than an hour after this conversation, our communications were shut down — I was, then, in the midst of a conference between my council and Senator Uther — I am sure the recordings can show that it indeed happened. More than that, not three hours after we were isolated from contact with the Republic, a number of ships started to descend to our soil — Federation ships, filled with droids. Along with the droids, though, came the party sent by the Jedi Council to attend to the matters concerning the blockade — the very same party that Lord Alined claimed to know nothing of. Master Gaius, Master Nimueh and their padawans were to the Trade Federation’s main ship, though, and suffered an attempt on their lives in the hands of the Trade Federation.”

“Outrageous!” exclaimed Bayard, standing up again. “You would call us not only invaders, but also murderers?”

“The truth of this, I cannot know, Senator Bayard,” Arthur answered, tiredly. “But I am sure that if the Senate wants to talk to them, the Jedi Council will create no problems. I am merely reporting what they have told me. If you dislike the claim, you may take it up with the Jedi themselves — I would like to see you try and defend your actions to them.”

“Gentleman,” Chancellor Annis’ voice rang through the room. “This is neither the point, nor the time for such accusations. Please continue talking about the invasion.”

The man crossed his arms on his chest, and it was clear that he was as unwilling as Arthur to back down, but there was little he could do at the moment. Bayard whispered to someone next to him, but Arthur paid him no mind.

“With the help of the Jedi, we were able to reach a escape ship,” he continued, trying to expose all facts before Bayard’s continuous outbursts made others side with him. Arthur, himself, had him not seem with his own eyes, might have doubted that the Trade Federation would go this far. “Upon crossing the blockade, it was heavily damaged, and with the obvious pursuit of the Federation to my royal person, we were forced to search for help in repairing the ship in the Outter Rim — which is why it took me so long to arrive. I did what I could to protect my people, but, from my last count before leaving, more than thirty ships filled with droids had landed on Camelot.”

“A very sad tale, undoubtedly fashioned to paint us the villains.” Bayard declared. “I insist we should appoint a commission…”

“The Congress of Malastare concurs with the honourable delegate from the Trade Federation. A commission must be appointed.”

Chancellor Annis started to speak, but she was soon interrupted by her own aides and from her vice-chairman. From where he stood, Arthur could see how her face closed off, frowning, as if she was about to do something that she much regretted. She tried shaking her head, and answered angrily to the man that stood next to her, but the man insisted, and her shoulders fell in defeat.

“The point is conceded,” she announced, finally, but there was no certainty in her voice. “Will you defer your motion and allow a commission to explore the validity of your claims?”

Arthur felt his blood boiling — this was the reason why his father and Aredian had suggested moving against her — this was why they had told him that Annis had little power, that the bureaucrats were the ones truly making the decisions. That they were on the payroll of the Federation no one doubted, and whatever help she might have offered before clearly meant less than he had imagined. He had kept his civility, tried for a reasonable, honourable solution that would allow them all to live in peace and strengthen alliances, but he had been naive in doing so.

“I will not defer!” He announced, angrily. “I have come here today to resolve this attack on our sovereignty, not to wait around while a committee discusses it and my people suffer and die. If this body is not capable of action as it is, it may be lacking leadership.” He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, as he grew ready to his next move. “I move for a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Annis leadership.”

He had known, even before deciding to do it, that it would create a great stir among the senators; and he had heard attentively to what his father and Aredian had said about Annis sinking popularity, but it didn’t make him ready to face the roar of approval, claps and screams of concordance that rang through the air. He had imagined that, if he did it, he would feel like a traitor, but their reaction make him feel like a saviour instead.

“Vote now!” hundreds of voices yelled, and Annis stepped back, stunned speechless by his action. He could see it in her eyes, how betrayed it made her feel, and Arthur would feel bad about it if she hadn’t betrayed him first. Her vice-chair stepped ahead, then, claiming for order and ever so slowly, things settled down. Uther stood, stopping next to Arthur as he spoke to him, clapping his back.

“You did well, my son. Now, they will elect a new Chancellor — a strong Chancellor — someone who will not let our tragedy continue and who will not be ruled by bureaucrats.”

And while Arthur knew he should feel exultant at the prospect, all he felt was tired and defeated, even though he had, by all accounts, just won.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. The Chariot

Morgana was not happy to be tasked with updating Uther with the news about Gaius recovery, but whatever else, he was still her master — and she was still on this mission, which meant dealing with her father whether she liked it or not. More than that, the council was waiting to see what sort of reaction the Senate would have to Arthur’s plea, and it wanted her to get a first-hand account. There was little doubt that they’d be informed either way, but it was always good to have intelligence from direct participants.

 

Lancelot was alone in the room when she arrived, with nothing to guard but his own thoughts. That he was troubled, it was clear. Morgana couldn’t imagine what he was going through — how she would have felt if it had been the temple that had been invaded like Camelot had. Luckily, it was not something she would ever have to worry about.

 

“Lady Morgana,” he said, with a bow, when he saw her.

 

“I’m not a lady,” she reminded him, yet again. It should be obvious from her shaved head and her beaded decorated braid, but it seemed to make little difference for the knight.

 

“You are still of royal blood and a princess of my planet, whatever path you have chosen to follow,” he said, simply. “And I will accord you the full measure of your position.”

 

She shook her head, the beads tingling with her movement.

 

“I am allowed no possessions and no honours — I have no titles from blood, those were all forfeited when I joined the Order. The only titles I may have are those I conquered for myself. So, if you need a title, you may use padawan — but simply Morgana will do fine.”

 

Proper as usual, he lowered his head, deferring to her words, but the simple gesture made clear that he didn’t agree with them completely. It mattered not.

 

“Are they not back yet?” she asked, tense.

 

“They’ve been gone all day,” Lancelot answered, looking back outside, at the sun setting over this side of the capital.

 

“I can see you are anxious,” she said, “but you have to trust that they are doing their best to save Camelot from this invasion.”

 

“Of that, I have no doubt. Senator Uther is wise, and King Arthur is a man that would never do less than everything to save his people. I trust their judgement fully but that does not refrain me from worrying about those that we left behind.”

 

There was something in the way he said it, something in his tone, in the look of his face as the red sun rays kissed his brown skin, that clued her in.

 

“Is there anyone in special you worry about, Sir?”

 

There was a tell-tale blush in Lancelot’s face. Morgana smiled, kindly, wondering exactly why it made him feel so ashamed; whatever the beliefs of Jedi were, there was little more normal than for a person to find love in another.

 

“There is this lady,” he said, looking away. “She will never see me the same way, but it matters not. She is brave and compassionate, and kind — and for all those qualities, she was left in charge of the people of the citadel, the ones we sent into hiding. There is every chance that they are still safe and hidden, but the idea that they might be found and slaughtered burdens my heart.”

 

Morgana closed her eyes, centring herself, trying to separate truth from lies inside her own head before she spoke again, her vision swimming slightly.

 

“I believe, Sir, that everyone in the Citadel is safe — and will remain so until we return. The battle will not be an easy one, but the Force shall guide us towards justice and peace. It will not be long, Sir, until we are back into Camelot.”

 

He looked at her, astonished, and she was about to apologise when the door opened up again, letting in Arthur, Uther, Aredian and Percival. Her father opened up a big smile when he saw her.

 

“Morgana!” his voice was exhilarated as he spoke. “You should have seen your brother in action today — he was brilliant.”

 

“A gifted speaker, undoubtedly,” agreed Aredian, and Arthur blushed under the compliments.

 

“I merely did what I believed to be the best for my people,” his voice was serious, as if someone weighted down on his heart. “I didn’t want to besmirch Chancellor Annis’ name, but her leadership had ceased to be effective, I saw it with my own eyes. It was what needed to be done.”

 

This was unexpected to Morgana. Sure, Chancellor Annis time as Supreme Chancellor was filled with issues, but she had been ever helpful towards Camelot, from what Morgana could see.

 

“Arthur asked for a vote of no confidence in the Supreme Chancellor,” Aredian explained, and both turned to look at Arthur, who could muster nothing more than a grimace at this. “Senator Uther has been appointed to succeed Annis as Supreme Chancellor.”

 

The idea held no personal appeal to Morgana, but it might be a good thing for Camelot. It was the perfect moment, indeed, for him to be elected, in the midst of all those tragedies.

 

“A surprise, to be sure,” Uther declared, magnanimously, although his face showed no signs of surprise. “But a welcome one. If I am elected, I shall put an end to corruption in the Senate.”

 

And while she didn’t doubt his good intention on it, Morgana knew better than to expect it to be that easy. Growing as Gaius’ padawan she had seen enough of politics to understand that this was a long term play, one that would take his whole mandate to solve — if it could be solved at all.

 

“Who else has been nominated?” she asked, out of sheer curiosity, and knowing that Uther’s soft heart towards her meant he would be frank, uncaring of how it would reflect on him.

 

“Rodor of Nemeth and Ailee Teem of Malastare” he said, swatting away his hand and dismissing the names as one would do to a fly. “But I feel confident that our situation will create a strong sympathy vote for us.”

 

Morgana refrained from pointing out that there was no “us”; she was merely a Jedi and had nothing to do with the situation. Much like Lancelot, Uther wouldn’t be able to separate things, and it would create nothing but an argument — one that they had had many times before, and she was _not_ eager to have again.

 

“I wish you luck,” were her only words.

 

Arthur, on the other hand, kept on frowning.

 

“I fear that by the time you are elected — once you finally have control of the bureaucrats — it will be too late for our people.”

 

“I understand your concern, Your Majesty,” Aredian said, his voice soft. “Unfortunately, the reality is that the Federation has control of our planet.”

 

Arthur was still standing, but he seemed smaller than usual, his broad shoulders turned inwards, his left hand gripping his hips while the right one rubbed his forehead in a nervous tick.

 

“Father, this is your arena,” he announced, finally. “I must return to mine. I will return to Camelot.”

 

It was a shocking decision, but, somehow, Morgana did not feel surprised. She could feel Lancelot’s eyes drilling her, but she didn’t turn, she didn’t move, she acted as if she wasn’t there.

 

“Your majesty, be realistic!” Pleaded Aredian, concerned. “They’ll for you to sign a treaty legalising their possessions.”

 

“I will be no one’s puppet and I’ll sign no treaty,” he vowed, turning towards Uther. “My fate will be no different from that of our people. You have taught me that more than Kings, we are their commander, their liege lord. I will fight them — I will take Camelot back or die trying.”

 

Morgana expected Uther to rage, to say it was impossible, that he was his only heir and his life much to precious to be gambled away like that, but Uther merely nodded, before patting Arthur’s back.

 

“This is the man I raised, Aredian,” he said, then. “A warrior, through and through. Go, then, and show them why the Knights of Camelot are renowned through the galaxy.”

 

And while Camelot was a culture of warriors, and while Uther had proved himself a hundred times over when he was king, while she didn’t doubt Arthur’s capabilities in the slightest, she felt that such a response didn’t bode well for any of them.

 

* * *

 

 

Night had already fallen by the time Nimueh was called back into the council chambers. After testing the boy, she hadn’t expected them to take long, but Morgana had arrived with news that seemed to have needed full on discussions. It was, in the end, not an urgent matter. A few days wouldn’t make that much of a difference to them, but whatever Morgana had learnt from her encounter with Uther was clearly worrying the council.

 

She wasn’t sure what to should expect as she stood before the twelve masters that ruled the whole order. They were, all, people she had known well — Master Deaton and Master Peter, Master Alator and Master Isle-dir, Master Ruadan, the new lightsaber instructor and Master Taliesin, who was head of the seers; Master Aglain, who leaded the Ambassadors, and tiny Master Grettir; she could not see Masters Meer-Dieth, Aufric and An-hor-ah from her position, but she could feel their presence all the same. It struck her, not for the first time, how hard her position was: from the whole council, only three were humans; only one was a female, and none of them was both.They were all people trained with, fought with, talked with — and yet, around her, their faces were as blank as an empty hologram.

 

Master Aglain was the first to speak.

 

“There’s no denying that The Force is strong with him.”

 

She gave him a tiny nod, that much had been obvious from the start. The man was playing with words — which, in all fairness, was an important part of his job.

 

“Will he be trained, then?”

 

Nimueh knew the answer even before they said it, the way they all looked at one another, the consternation in the way a small but visible line appeared in Master Peter’s forehead. It was Deaton, though, who spoke.

 

“No. He will not be trained.”

 

She could feel how incredibly disappointed Merlin was behind her. In spite of his earlier words, even Mordred seemed to be disbelieving of their decision — a first, from what she could remember. Still, the Jedi kept on speaking.

 

“He is too old — and knows nothing of us — we have seen, not a full year ago, how hard it can make for a child to adapt to the temple. And Merlin is three times as old —”

 

But for all that she had been positively impressed with Stiles, this was another matter altogether, and she wasn’t about to just let them waste something that was far more than a talent — it was their salvation.

 

“He is the chosen one,” she reminded them, raising her chin. “You must see…”

 

“A Jedi does _not_ use the word _must,_ ” chided Master Alator, but she paid him no mind.

 

“He is far more than a boy too old for training — this sort of ability…”

 

“Yes,” Master Kilgharrah agreed, but his face showed no signs of relenting. “But this boy’s future is clouded. We cannot ascertain where it leads, and we cannot assume responsibility for it.”

 

Nimueh was nothing if not stubborn — it was the sort of persistence that had made her clash with Uther, the sort of persistence that made be kept away from the council. The sort of persistence that made words come out of her mouth before she could fully consider them.

 

“I will train him, then. I take Merlin as my Padawan learner.”

 

It was a formal announcement, one that would be made only when a Master and a padawan became formally bonded. She had used the words twice before, and now, she was using the third — the ace in her sleeve. The Council could admit members into the academy or deny them entrance, but there was nothing in the Code that absolutely forbade knights and masters to train padawans that hadn’t been through the academy, a loophole she wasn’t above using to make sure Merlin got the training he needed; even if it undid all of her hard work in the last seven years while trying to be once again accepted by the council, forgiven by her previous misdemeanours.

 

She could feel Mordred’s surprise at this, and Merlin was watching the exchange with interest — well, it _was_ his future that was being decided. Still, she didn’t doubt the council might use it as yet another excuse.

 

“You have an apprentice, Nimueh,” Kilgharrah reminded her. “It is impossible to take on a second one.”

 

“The code forbids it,” declared Deaton, although there was no such restriction written in it, merely the habit. It hadn’t always been like this, either, and it bothered her that they seemed to have wedded it as it those were lines dictated by some Indigenous God instead of broad guidelines to their actions.

 

“Mordred is ready,” she asserted, knowing both that it was true and that there was preciously little to be won by arguing the finer points of the code with them under the present circumstances.

 

“I am ready to face the trials,” he agreed, eager as every padawan before him.

 

“We, alone, shall decide who is ready,” Alator proclaimed, but it hadn’t been Master Kilgharrah to speak, so she continued.

 

“He is headstrong and has much to learn of the living Force, but he is capable. There is little more I can teach him — what else he might learn may as well be exactly what the council sees as a failure in me. For almost seven years I have trained him — and he has grown into a man and a knight. There are others, now, that have stronger need of me than him — and I have made a vow, before this council, when called to answer for my misdeeds, to always help those in need.”

 

Kilgharrah observed her keenly for unending moments, and she wondered if her words had brought some effect in him. He let her wondering for a while longer, while Merlin looked on them with wide eyes and Mordred stared at his own feet, humbled by her words.

 

“We will decide the fate of the Young One at a later date,” he declared, finally.

 

“Now is not he time for this,” Deaton agreed, before continuing. “The Senate is voting for a new Supreme Chancellor, and King Arthur is returning home,” both news were somewhat shocking to Nimueh, who hadn’t foreseen this, wrapped as she was in thinking about Siths and Merlin. It explained, though, Morgana’s quick admittance and the council’s prolonged discussion; “which will undoubtedly put pressure on the Federation. This will widen the confrontation in Camelot.”

 

“And draw out the King’s attacker,” added Peter, a smirk in his face.

 

“Return to Camelot with the young King,” Master Grettir told them. “And discover the identity of this dark warrior — a name may be enough to unravel this mystery and whether this is truly a Sith.”

 

“Morgana shall be going, as well,” Master Aglain said, his face peaceful as ever. “And I beg you, Master Nimueh, to remember she is _not_ your charge — the diplomatic issues she needs to handle alone, if she wants to prove she is ready for her trials.”

 

She bowed at that, there was no reason why she would interfere, but Master Aglain had always been overcautious.

 

“May the Force be with you,” blessed Master Kilgharrah, and with it, the three of them bowed and walked outside — their new mission awaiting them.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Merlin was no longer a child, whatever the other’s might say — so he knew very well that the Jedi Council wanted nothing to do with him. What reasons did they have, he didn’t know. He always tried to be mindful of others, and exercise the good habits he had been taught. He was, in no way, a bad person — so it hurt him that they would think so ill of him. Having lived with many people, most of whom were nice to him in spite of the harshness of their lives, made him feel far too deeply the hostility in their gaze.

 

“I am truly grateful for your words, Master, but what they said is the truth,” he heard Mordred say, and this hurt even more, because he had been more than ready to like Mordred.

 

“Truth, more often than not, is but a point of view,” Nimueh dismissed, and it made Mordred shake his head. Merlin tried hard not to overhear, but the city seemed to be far more silent than he would have expected, sitting on the edge of the platform, his legs dangling in the air, hundreds of kilometres above the ground for Coruscant had grown ever upwards in the millennia since it had been founded. He could see numerous streams of light, the speeders crossing the air above and bellow, a hustle and bustle of life that was unlike anything he had experience before, but it was not enough to drown the sounds of their conversation, or to keep their eyes away from them.

 

“The boy is too old — they can all see it. Why can’t you?”

 

Nimueh raised an eyebrow at him, and Merlin looked away.

 

“You were the first to notice him and to want to have him tested,” she reminded him, and Mordred moved his head.

 

“Well — yes, when I thought he was _eight_.”

 

“The council will decide his future,” she said, finally. “It should be more than enough for you. It would also do to remember that this — ages, number of padawans — are but recent restrictions in the Order — suggestions, not laws. We all are meant to use our own discretion and the Force to guide us, before looking at it, and we’re _certainly_ not to take it as gospel and worship it above and ahead of everything else. Now, get on board!”

 

Mordred huffed, but walked back to the ship they had left the day before. Merlin kept his place, huddled on the corner of the platform, waiting for the rest of them to arrive.

 

“Master Nimueh,” he said, when he heard her approach. “I don’t want to be a problem.”

 

Her laughter rang through the night-air, as if she found the very idea ludicrous.

 

“You won’t be a problem, honey,” she said, running her hand through his hair. “I am not allowed to train you — yet — but I still want you to watch me and be mindful,” Merlin nodded at that, he didn’t even need to hear those words, training or no, he would be watching the three of them, and trying to learn, it’d be impossible not to, not when something seemed to be always bubbling under his skin whenever they moved. “Always remember, that your focus determines your reality. Keep your mind in peace and your eyes on me and you will be safe.”

 

The two of them remained in silence for a while, and Merlin looked over to see the sky. It was the same as the one he had seen in Tatooine, or so logic said, but it looked different. He couldn’t see nearly as many stars, but those he did see looked closer, brighter, as if the shine of the city reflected on them.

 

“There is something I wanted to ask,” he said, finally, looking at the woman next to him. “I’ve heard Master Kilgharrah and the others speaking about midichlorians. What are these?”

 

It was clear the answer was a difficult one, it was written in the expression of her face.  Her sigh also made obvious that it was some very basic learning on their Order, which made him feel ignorant — a feeling he had never enjoyed.

 

“They’re microscopic lifeforms that live within each and every living cell,” she explained, finally. “We are symbiont with them.”

 

It was not a word he had encountered before, and once again, he was left to wonder how much he had yet to learn about life in general, even without the Jedi training.

 

“Symbiont?”

 

“That’s what we called when two life forms live together for mutual advantage,” she lectured, her voice going into a specific cadence that reminded him of his mother when she had started teaching him the letters or the numbers. “Without them, life couldn’t exist and we would have no knowledge of the Force. They exist in everyone, but often those with the highest count of them have a singular facility to connect to the Force — which is why we count it to decide whether a child has a future as a Jedi or not. And even then — that is not enough to say for sure; which is why the council tested you with other tools. There is much in being a Jedi beyond being able to tap into the Force, much that relates to having a certain temperament, a proper behaviour and a strong will.”

 

Merlin knew better than to point out that Master Nimueh herself seemed to have the last one far more than any of the other’s. This, certainly, wouldn’t help his case.

  
“But mostly, this ability allows us to hear the Force speaking to us. Once you learn to quiet your mind, it becomes a sound as clear as that of a waterfall crashing with the stones bellow.”

 

Merlin had never seen a waterfall in person, but he from the Holo-Net he knew what she was talking about. It seemed impossible that they were continuously speaking to him without him ever noticing.

 

“I don’t know how to do that,” he knew he sounded upset, but Nimueh merely rubbed his back.

 

“It takes learning — meditating, mostly. Time and training will allow you to listen — and then you will.”

 

Merlin believed her with all his being, and wanted to say so — to plead to them to be allowed to listen to that voice that showed what was the right path, that guided him and brought him certainty. He had lived in fear for much of his life, and now that he had seen the other side, he didn’t want to go back.

 

The moment was broken when two vehicles pulled up next to the platform. King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, Sir Percival and a man he hadn’t seen before came out of the first, while the second showed Morgana. She smiled at Merlin, a bit sadly, and he knew that she had already heard what the council had said, and there was some relief at not having to explain it. He didn’t know how to explain to Arthur, either, when he had showed such faith in him.

 

Nimueh rose swiftly, walking to greet them.

 

“Your Majesty,” she said, with the tiniest of bows. “It is our pleasure to continue to serve and protect you.”

  
Arthur gave her a grimace.

  
“Yes — and I welcome you, even if it feels as if I’m being assigned baby-sitters. How am I to appear as a true commander of troops and such if I’m being escorted by Jedi all the time?” In spite of his words, he smiled at her. “Still, your experience and wisdom shall be invaluable — and your knowledge of Camelot can only add to our resources. I think my father fears that the Federation means to destroy me — but they will find the cost is too high.”

 

“I will not let that happen,” Nimueh vowed, before turning to the other padawan. “And, Morgana — I was glad to hear you were coming with us. Congratulations on your first solo assignment.”

 

“Thank you, Master,” she said, with a small blush and a bow. It made Merlin smile. She looked positively radiant at being back with them.

 

“Yes, yes — we are all very proud of her,” Arthur agreed, before gesturing to the side. “This is Ranulf, he’ll be our pilot for the journey, so you won’t have to worry, Master, nor will your padawan. Now, shall we go? Time is something we cannot waste.”

 

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Nimueh nodded, gesturing them to go ahead. “Come on, Merlin.”

 

He stood up as quickly as he could, swaying dangerously on the edge for a second before something that was both him and not him pushed him back into the platform with ease and he rushed inside.

 

“And they doubt him,” he heard the Jedi murmur after a low chuckle, but there was no time to ask her what exactly she meant by it, as the ramp rose and the ship moved, rising to the sky and taking them back to space.

 

 

 


	9. Insulation

  


Without having to flee to the outer ring to repair their ship, the journey to Camelot would be a short one - a little more than three standard days. It seemed like a lifetime ago since Mordred had travelled it last, but in reality, it had just been a few days.

  


While upon heading to Coruscant they had been in a subdued mood, now it felt almost like a festival - or it would if there weren't less than 10 people on board. He had known, of course, that the people of Camelot were warriors, but little could have prepared him  to the joy and commitment they showed to the idea of fighting for their people.

  


Camelot's knights had always been renowned throughout the Republic as elite human warriors. Mordred couldn't help but wonder why, among all planets in the region, the Trade Federation had chosen Camelot to occupy. Then again, if they defeated Camelot Knights and their Lords on their own home, no one else would dare to defy them.  


There, the Council had said, lay the true peril. Over mighty, the trade federation could create far too many problems for the Republic; spreading even more the corruption that many chancellors had fought to keep under control. Mordred had once asked Nimueh if it wouldn’t just be easier to keep them from having a seat in the Senate, it seemed like a Banking Clan was no formal political body to be represented, but his master had explained to him that this was the only thing keeping them in check — without formal representation, it’d be much harder to track who they’d be approaching and what they’d be doing to advance their own politics.

 

While Mordred, Morgana and Merlin kept their meditation regime, Arthur and his two knights continuously worked on their armour. They were quality pieces, from the purest Cortosi metal, mined from their colony moon of Gedref. They were,  too, priceless for they were impervious to almost any indirect attack: no blasters would fracture their protection, not even the Force could damage them. Lightsabers left nothing more than scratches even though they were often able to cut off whole members when coming in contact with the skin.

  


To attack a Camelot Knight one had to face him in equal risk, at an arm’s length and armed with bare steel. Their armour made them a hard enemy to defeat, but, Mordred knew, not an impossible one. Time and persistence would turn the material brittle and it would eventually turn to dust under continuous lightsaber assault.

  
Of course, the fact that the Federation _had_ bothered with getting their hands on in droids specifically designed to withstand an assault from the kind of warriors that were the blood and soul of Albion Sector was exactly what had tipped the Council off. It amazed Mordred how little Arthur seemed perturbed by hearing the news, how confident he was that it’d make almost no difference. It would be, however, an important weapon in Senator Pendragon’s hands as he ran for Chancellor — and, as little as Master Nimueh liked it, he was likely to win.  


To avoid spoiling their precious armour, the knights carried shields of laser too,that reflected back shots and swords alike. Mordred had seen those often before, as they were the difference between life and death in war torn worlds, but nothing that he had seen before could be truly compared to the  shields carried in Camelot. They had raised defence to an art form, and instead of simple lights of purple and blue, their laser shields displayed in multiple colours the elegant symbols of their houses, their heraldry filled with images of animals and flowers, representing qualities that each house was renowned for, as if more than protection, it was also a painting — a declaration of who they were to those who didn’t know them.

  
More than that, only the outward part of their armour was made of Cortosi. Under it they wore mails of simple iron, rings forged together manually my master smiths. As a last precaution, jackets of leather and rough spun tunics protected their skin from harm — either from the enemy or from the weight they carried.

  
And yet, Mordred had seen they caring to each piece with the same sort of dedication a jedi should have with their sabers. They had left Camelot with nothing other that what they wore, but the visit to the capital had supplied them with tools and extra items they needed. Percival, whose arms were almost as wide as Mordred’s leg, was left in charge of beating the metal back into submission from the small indentations and bumps they had received from their last battle. The rhythmic sounds of the hammer hitting the metal became the soundtrack to their meditations, the evenly spaced hits reflecting the space between inhaling and exhaling.

  
How ironic that the sounds of war could help bring around the peace of mind. But wasn’t true peace the goal behind every war? Peace, Justice, fairness: those were the reasons for people to fight, they fought either because it had been broken or to return to it. Now, the rhythmic beating, scraping, polishing of metal lulled them into harmony, before they clashed into fighting and returned to where they were now, an unending cycle, like all things in life.

  
After the attack from the Sith, Arthur had declared it paramount that they all trained together —  Jedi and Camelot Knights, metal against light, as they challenged and learnt from each other. It was harder than Mordred had expected, for the Knights were truly talented and clearly took their training seriously. While the forms they used were not similar to those used by the Jedi — whose strength was in the sharp blade that needed but a touch to maim; while their blades needed speed and strong movements to be able to pierce or cut through sinew and bone — it was undeniable the talent it took; the careful footwork and the continuous movement that, at points, vaguely resembled Ataru.

It meant, too, that through fighting, they all got to know each other much better; without any need for words. It was almost a dance, as they moved forwards and backwards, slashing and stabbing, sweating and keeping their mind cool even when competing. Now, Mordred could say, with ease, that Lancelot and Percival felt guilty about facing Morgana, and would always start by trying to make it easy for her — a mistake Mordred himself had done, once — but, unlike that time, she wouldn’t stop and request a fair fight from them — she would use their softness against them, beating them more soundly and easily than the rest of them could. Arthur, on the other hand, had no such compunction and in his duels with Morgana, one could see the spirit of Juyo — passion poured from their movements, without ever dominating them. It was beautiful and, had it been real, it would also be deadly. Merlin’s eyes had shone upon watching it, and Mordred couldn’t say he was impervious to it, for the siblings were like day and night: absolutely different and yet, clearly the same.

From watching them with Nimueh, he could truly see how talented they were — none could truly match her, even when she forgone her usual double-bladed saber in favour of a short one, but they were as close as they could get without a Jedi’s reflexes. Lancelot was quick and graceful, always honourable and worried with the reflections of his actions. He was careful, conscious, and would have made a perfect Jedi. Percival, on the other hand, trusted far too much in his superior strength, and needed to train his footwork to guarantee his wins. Arthur, deferring and respectful, cared more about listening to Nimueh’s comments and tips than he did about winning at all.

From fighting them with himself, Mordred had learnt that Lancelot was compassionate and patient, that Percival was caring and soft, and Arthur was more approachable and human than one would have expected from a king. He also came to understand things he had never even considered before: that it was not love of violence, as he had once thought, that made them warriors, but rather a love of peace, of order, to the last consequences.

Their devotion to each other and to their people was a joy to behold. Normally, Mordred would have considered a planet who still relied on an absolutist monarchy to be uncivilised, but upon seeing Arthur talking to his two knights, he truly believed in it. Arthur was, although a King, one of the most democratic leaders he had ever seen. He heard all of them, he valued each insight and each opinion. He worried equally about soldiers, peasants and children. All of them were Camelot, he said, and all of them were to be valued. There was, to the young king, no price that could surpass that of a life.

Under Uther, they had become bound by a code that ruled their actions. Under Arthur, they had become more than fighters: they had become protectors. That, alone, was the reason they seemed to rejoice in return to an invaded planet: now they would be able to do what they must, to do what they had vowed to do. Now they would protect the people they served. And Mordred, for one, felt honoured to fight at their side.

  


* * *

 

  
As he was considered the most diplomatic and political among their group, it fell to Lance to invite Master Nimueh, Lady Morgana, Mordred and Merlin to join them for their minor feast on the eve of their arrival to Camelot. From what he could tell, Arthur was unsure if they would come, but very much would like the opportunity to share with their allies the full extent of life in their planet and the rites they went through before battle — if to differentiate himself from a simple soldier, to make his sister more familiar with the culture that was meant to be hers or if merely for politics, Lance couldn’t say. Perhaps all were equally valid reasons from Arthur’s point of view; and it wasn’t Lance’s place to question his motives.

  
He knocked softly on the door of the largest cabin of the ship, which Arthur had insisted to cede to Master Nimueh. He knew, from the hour it was, that they were probably finishing their final daily meditation. Lance tried to remain perfectly still as he waited for someone to come to the door. He was merely a bit surprised that it was Lady Morgana the one to open it — just Morgana, as she insisted to be called. She offered him a small smile.

 

“Sir Lancelot,” she said, giving him space to enter. “To what do we own the pleasure?”

  
He walked inside, making eye contact with each of them in turn and bowing, before turning towards Nimueh — who, by the Jedi rules, outranked all of them — and speaking.

  
“King Arthur wishes to invite you to join him in our pre-battle feast,” he lowered turned his head slightly, encompassing all present. “It is but a modest fare, but he would be glad if you could come.”

  
“Pre-battle feast?” Morgana echoed, seeming confused, but Master Nimueh seemed to know exactly what it meant as she answered.

  
“We are honoured by the invitation, Sir Knight. Please inform the King that we will join you shortly.”

  
Lance bowed again and left, returning to the main living area, where Ranulf and Percival were putting the finishing touches on their evening meal. It would have been considered poor by their planetary standards; only one type of meat, two days old bread, cheese, a potato stewed with carrots and only one sort of fruit. Still, they would have gone without even that, hadn’t Senator Uther insisted that tradition should be observed regardless of the circumstances. It had been all the could bring from Coruscant, and they had no wine, no mead and not even ale to drink; but it mattered very little. The familiarity of it was enough to quell the anxieties in their hearts as they approached the inevitable battle for Camelot.

  
“They should be here soon,” he announced, and Arthur nodded from where he was carving the meat.

  
It was more than simple necessity that made him share these menial tasks with him; Arthur was a King, but not a man that believed that his birth granted him the privilege of being waited on; protocol was something he accepted and understood, not loved. Given the chance, he always chose to travel in small groups, and to share everything with his men. Leon, whose good handle on politics and clear talent in battled had led him to be named Camelot’s First Knight, was vexed by Arthur’s simple habits to this day; he had, afterall, grown to manhood under Uther’s regime and Uther had been very conscious of his standing — and so had Arthur, when they had first met, five or six years before. The transformation had been a slow one, but one Lance was proud to witness.  


They had just enough time to put everything on the table and the Jedi party arrived. Arthur nodded to Nimueh, and she smiled at him with a grace that was very different from the ferocious expression she usually wore. He stood at one head of the table, and gestured her to take the other — each of them leaders of their own groups, working together in equal footing, even if the Jedi were meant to serve. Lancelot stood at his right, with Percival in front of him. Ranulf was next to Percival. They waited as the Jedi gathered around — Mordred at Nimueh’s right hand and Morgana on the left, Merlin beside him. The king waited until the master had seated to take his own seat, and the rest of them waited him to be comfortable to sit too.

 

“We are glad that you’ve elected to join us” said Arthur, with a gesture towards the food. “Please, have as much as you want.”

 

Nimueh smiled at him.

 

“The pleasure is all ours,” she nodded towards their meal. “It’s been a long time since I’ve attended one of those.”

 

Lancelot was again reminded that Nimueh had fought in Camelot before, she was far more familiar with their costumes than the rest of them. It seemed incredible that she and Uther were not more than ten years apart in age; she still looked young and fresh as if she had barely hit thirty.

  
“It is not to our usual standard,” Arthur said, his tone apologetic. “But it is the most we could gather”

  


“It seems like a banquet!” Merlin chirped, and Arthur smiled at the boy.

 

“It is meant to be — now, please, eat.”

  


There was a moment of silence while they served themselves, trading bows and plates, putting food on their plates. No one spoke as they started to eat, and soon Lancelot was sure that, although rushed and last minute, Senator Uther had sent them the highest quality food. His plate was already half-empty by the time someone spoke.

  


“I feel I probably should know — I’m sure it was in some studying material I skipped, may Master Gaius never hear of it, — but what is the pre-battle feast exactly?” Lady Morgana asked, curiosity clear in her face. Seeing as Arthur had his mouth full, he took it to himself answering her question.

  


“It is a moment we gather together and celebrate life — as opposed to the death that may soon follow. It’s a time to honour the bonds that we share, and remind ourselves what we fight for.”

  


“With food?!” she asked, smirking.

  


“Yes, milady,” he smiled back, amused. “With food.”

  


“Because nothing reminds us more of what is important than food,” she nodded, irony marking her face. Lancelot was unsure of how to reply to this, but his king took this into his own hands.

  


“Food is a necessity for most beings — certainly for all humans,” he reminded her, his tone calm and regal. “And while no one can be a true warrior — or guardian — without surpassing the needs of the body, in Camelot, we believe that there is no point in denying them. Mind over body is a good tenant — an essential one — but best left to the moments of true need; as in the battle field itself. We are all trained to withstand pain, hunger, lust, exhaustion and everything else to the limits of human endurance; but we depend on this very same body; and it should be reverenced as well. A body is more ready to win all those challenges if those needs are seen to, to the fullest, before the probation starts.”

  


“So you believe into giving on to urges,” Mordred said, his tone mild, but still clearly disapproving. As his King was now drinking, Lance merely shrugged to the man.

  


“Uncontrolled, all of those things can lead to vices — but if severely denied, they become burdens as well,” he offered, as politically as he could. It wouldn’t do for the Jedi to feel their ways criticised.

  


“It is a good method,” Nimueh declared, surprising them all. “I strongly believe that Camelot has it right in this matter — that nothing good comes from denying too fiercely that which is part of our nature — neither good nor bad, simply a fact.”

  


“Do you?” asked Morgana, clearly surprised, and Nimueh smiled.

  


“I have tried it myself,” her smile was cutting. “And found it worked very well for me. Whatever you have heard, I would advise you not to dismiss it until you have tried it.”

  


Mordred and Morgana still had their eyes glued to their master as Arthur started to speak again.

  


“So on the eve of a battle, the Knights of Camelot — and, indeed, all our warriors, even those who are not called knights — feast and sate their hunger. They drink their share, and they take lovers to their rooms. They sleep until they naturally wake up, and when battle comes, they are far more than simply ready to do their duty: they have refilled their energies to the fullest and they are motivated above everything. They have, once again, experienced all the delights that are to be had in human life, and they give it the fullest value.”

  


Lancelot could see a look of questioning in the eyes of the padawans, if it meant that they saw sense in it or if they doubted it’s effectiveness, he couldn’t say.

  


“Have you done this?” Mordred asked his master, looking back at her.

  


“Many times,” she confirmed, and Morgana was the next one to speak.

  


“Taken lovers, too?”

  


Nimueh smiled at her, kindly but firmly.

  


“Yes. I have told that Mordred often enough, even if he hardly ever listens and I’ll tell you now: the dangers the code and council warn against, are that of passion, of ties so deep and so filled with the need to possess that they may lead you to the dark side. It is not love, itself, that is an issue; it isn’t sex — sexual relations are a need of some species — humans, notably — , and it is a call as natural as the one to relief yourself in the toilet, eat or sleep; attending to is isn’t different than allowing yourself to attend to any of those things: it can be held down and controlled up to a point, but it isn’t the natural way of our bodies, and renouncing it poses as many risks — physical, mental and spiritual — as surrendering mindlessly to it does. Don’t allow yourself to be blinded by the prejudices of others — having sexual relations isn’t necessarily the same thing as falling in love, or drowning in lust, or putting an infatuation ahead of your duty. If you are moderated in it, you incur in no special risks. It is but an physical activity like any other. More than that, sex, along with all other things prescribed by Camelot’s warriors, can lead you to a state of peace that may even surpass that which is attained by the longest and most severe meditations — and far more pleasurable.”

  


Lancelot couldn’t see Morgana’s face from where he was, but Mordred’s face was on fire. He tried to look the other way, to change the thread of the conversation, but he found his king’s eyes drilling into the padawan, something between curiosity and desire in his eyes. Long had he known that Arthur preferred the company of men to the lures of women, but never before he had seen it so clearly shown.

  


“I can’t imagine that all may be amenable to it…” Morgana said, and they all knew she was thinking about her own master in it. Nimueh’s laugh rang through the room, though.

  


“Oh, but you don’t know him half as well as you think you do, my dear,” she seemed quite amused. “I was not the only one to engage in their ways, and Gaius was far less apt to keep his liaisons away from his heart. Indeed, he might have left the Order altogether, had Ali-cyn not insisted that their time had come to an end. It broke his heart, poor Gaius, but it was for the best. They are still in touch, that much I know, even if she is stationed in Telosian.”

  


Weird as this sound, Lancelot did not doubt her words. Neither, it was clear, did the padawans. Remembering for the first time in a while that they were not alone in the room, he turned to look at Merlin, wondering how much he even knew of such things, and found the boy eyeing everything carefully, considering everything that was being said.

  


“We’ve had food, and there was no drink,” Morgana said, a smirk in her face, turning toward her brother. “Now you intend to find lovers as well?” she eyed Lancelot, playfully. “Well, not Sir Lancelot, I know, for his heart belongs to a mysterious lady left in Camelot, so he will have to pass,” then she eyes back her brother. “But things don’t seem to be looking up your way, with only the two of us here and neither being an option.”

  


The King turned a bright shade of red, which was, for some reason, the same as Mordred’s. He cleared his throat and tried to speak.

  


“Well — no. I was not — forgive me, I didn’t — I didn’t mean today.”

  


But even being taken far away from birth and being raised apart, Morgana seemed to have the same quick grasp of people that her brother had, and she looked between her friend and Arthur for a second before her smile widened, as predatory as Master Nimueh’s could be.

  


“Oh — I see. Not as much of a problem as I expected then.”

  


Mordred choked on his drink, and Arthur seemed, if possible, to turn even more red, before giving a tiny shrug.

  


“I’m not discarding the possibility,” he said, trying to keep his composure, and glancing quickly at Mordred. “But I — I understand that those are peculiar costumes and that there are occasions in which we cannot full fill them how we normally would.”

  


It was not exactly flirting, but it was a clear opening, one that Lancelot had no idea if Mordred would take. The two men exchanged a glance, and he couldn’t help but clear his throat and interrupt the moment — it felt far too intimate to be shared like this.

  


“Ranulf, how many hours do you think we have before we arrive?”

  


“Yes, Ranulf,” Arthur said, his voice still betraying his thoughts. “How much time do we have to, hm, get ready?”

  


“From my calculations, we should reach the blockade in fifteen hours,” he started, and all talk turned towards their plan to bypassing the Trade Federation again and landing safely, much to Lancelot’s relief.

  


A man would have to be blind, though, to not notice the looks that kept on being traded, but, he figured, this was none of his business, and did his best to ignore it.

  


* * *

 

  
  


Nimueh woke up feeling more energised than she had felt in years. The mission was still challenging and more than she had ever expected to encounter, but this seemed refreshing rather than daunting. She found that most of the ship was still asleep, but Ranulf was already back at the bridge, calculating their approach to Camelot and Merlin was standing next to him, clearly asking about something on the panel.

  


“Those are forwards stabilisers,” she heard the pilot explain, seeming glad rather than annoyed at the company.

  


“So those must be the ones to control the pitch,” deduced the boy, with a grin, and Ranulf responded in kind.

  


“You catch on pretty quick,” he answered, elbowing the boy’s belly. Merlin laughed, and it was a sound she had hardly ever heard it before, and she felt it was a pity. “You may even become a pilot some day.”

  


“I hope not,” she heard him whisper, before he saw her. “Good morrow, Master Nimueh.”

  


He gave her a respectful bow, and she messed up with his hair.

  


“Why not a pilot? It seems clear to me that you have far more talent than most in that area.”

  


“Yes,” he agreed, with no false modesty. “But I still hope the Council will allow me to become a Jedi.”

  


“Don’t worry about it, child” Nimueh smiled at him. “I’ll make sure you are trained, even if it is the last thing I do.”

  


It was nothing but a way of speaking, but it tugged at her heart all the same — it might as well be the last thing she did before leaving the Order. She shook her head slightly, moving away from those thoughts.

  


“Still — there are Jedi pilots too. We call them Aces — you may become one of them some day.”

  


This seemed to pacify him enough, and she allowed herself to sit down next o Ranulf, looking at the console.

  


“How much longer?”

  


“Not long, Master. Any moment now we should see it.”

  


Yet, the end of the trip would be only the beginning of their journey -- there was more to it than simply reaching Camelot unschated. And yet, she never before had felt more ready to whatever she was about to face.

  


* * *

 

  


Camelot was as different from Tatooine as a planet could be; Merlin could see even from the space. While in his old home, sands dominated the landscape, making it yellow even from far outside, here it was green that dominated the sphere.

  


“There is one battleship on my scope,” Ranulf announced, and now all of them stood on the bridge, waiting for the moment to leave the ship.

  


“It’s a droid control ship,” Mordred said, analysing the screen. “If we manage to take it down, this whole war will be over.”

  


“This ship isn’t equipped for this,” Ranulf lamented. “But our battle cruisers on land should be able to handle it — and worse, they have probably spotted us.”

  


“So we don’t have much time,” Nimueh reminded them. “Do your best, pilot.”

  


Camelot was mostly made of forest and meadows. There were some villages here and there, farming lands, a fertile valley filled with flowers, and water — lakes, rivers, seas, so much that it seemed impossible to Merlin’s eyes. Ranulf was clearly talented in piloting, and landed them in the midst of the cover of trees, in a meadow so small that the ship took most of it.

  


“Thank you, Ranulf” Arthur said, his voice brimming with gratitude. If you ever tire of serving my father in the Capital…”

  


“You’ll be the first to know, sire,” Ranulf promised. “Now, hurry — I will distract them to the best of my abilities.”

  


It seemed like a suicide mission for Merlin, but he knew better than to argue. It was not his place — he was supposed to do what he was told, and so he did, walking into the woods with the rest of them.

  


“There is a farm — loyal, I’m sure — one hour to the south of here,” Arthur explained, leading them through a trail that was almost invisible. “We’ll gather horses there — Trade Federation is too blind by it’s technological prejudice to have cared about them. Lancelot — head towards the white mountains, and bring Leon and Guinevere to meet us — whatever other knights and archers you find there must get ready to fight; leave only the barest defences — the land itself should fight for us — but don’t hold back in waiting for them; they may follow at their own pace — while I have urgent need to meet those two. Percival — I want to you head to the citadel and find Elyan, he will be essential to our plans.”

  


“We won’t leave you unprotected,” Percival declared, before eyeing the rest of them. “No offence.”

  


“I will protect him, Sir Percival,” Nimueh said, her voice firm. “Worry not, for I am more than prepared to defend your king.”

  


Arthur assented to it, with grace. It was incredible how he would become regal so suddenly, when he was such a childish person when he spoke to Merlin alone.

  


“We will meet again tomorrow at twilight,” the king announced. “In the Castle of Ancient Kings — from there, we will spring our attack.”

  


All orders had been given, so they walked silently through the forest, that would, Merlin was sure, forever be fascinating to him. If they hadn’t been in such a hurry, he would have stopped to feel each tree, each leaf. It all seemed to brim with life, far more than he had expected.

  


“What is the Castle of Ancient Kings?” Mordred asked, but his words were directed to Nimueh.

  


“It’s an old, abandoned fortress, three hours west from the Citadel. It used to to be a royal palace — the seat of government — until King Bruta, built the castle we’ve been to last time. For a while, it was used as a royal retreat, but in the last two hundred or so years, it has been left to rot. The forest encroaches close to it, which will work to our advantage. It is, also, quite spacious — a whole army could be hosted there and you wouldn’t be able to see it from the outside.”

  


It seemed quite formidable to Merlin, and he felt eager to see it as he had never seen anything even similar to a castle, even if he was unsure what he was supposed to do in the midst of a war — well, observe, he supposed, and learn. That was what Nimueh had told him to do.

  


Most of their walk was done in silence, and the farmhouse sprung unannounced, it’s back close to the line of trees, while in front of it, hundreds of meters of fertile field were left unattended. It held an eerie silence, which made Merlin’s skin crawl — as if something horrible had happened in it.

  


Still, he was shocked by what he saw when he walked inside, behind Mordred. Bodies were spread through the house, their eyes open but unseeing, staring at the ceiling as if waiting for salvation that never came. It made him sick in the stomach. He had seen death before, however, never like this.

  


“Droidekas,” Mordred said, his voice subdued, as he studied the marks in the wooden table. “They never stood a chance.”

  


Merlin was somewhat relieved to see he wasn’t the only one feeling queasy. Leaning against one of the counters, Morgana seemed just about to faint, her eyes huge but blind to the scene in front of her.

  


“They were just farmers,” said Arthur, his voice heavy with guilt. “Just ordinary people — and they sent Droidekas to deal with them.”

  


He was clearly angry, and trembled a bit as he lowered himself and closed the eyes of an old man.

  


“They will be avenged.”

  


“Beware, Young King,” Nimueh advised, her face concerned. “Revenge is never the best goal to be pursued.”

  


Arthur looked at her, his disagreement clear in his face.

  


“I'm not a Jedi to deny my people their justice,” he spit, before he looked again at the bodies piled up on the kitchen. Standing up, he took a deep breath before speaking again. “Nor my father to loose myself in it. Thank you for the reminder, Master.”

  


Nimueh lowered her head, accepting what he said. Lancelot, Percival and Mordred started closing the eyes of the rest of the dead, and one by one, they were left to rest.

  


“I wish we could properly care for the bodies,” Arthur murmured, with a sad shake of head. “But this would give us away. Come on, we must go.”

  


Together, they reached the stables and, as predicted, the Trade Federation forces hadn’t bothered with them. Merlin had never seen a horse before, and was shocked at how big and powerful they looked — most of them were taller than he was. The animals were clearly agitated, perhaps, sensing the horrors that had happened inside, but under the touch of the knights and Master Nimueh, they calmed quickly.

  


“Take horses to carry them back,” Arthur told his warriors, his voice firm. “We can share.”

  


He looked up to Nimueh for confirmation, and she gave him a firm nod. There were seven of them on the stables, and first Lance, then Percival left with two each. Three remained for the five of them.

  


“Can you ride?” Arthur asked them, and Merlin was quick to shake his head. Mordred, at least, did the same, while the two women nodded firmly.

  


“I’ll take Mordred with me,” Morgana said, giving him a sad smile.

  


“I’ll take Merlin,” Arthur countered, and he felt a thrill of excitement in the thought.

  


“Very well,” Nimueh agreed, quickly taking her seat. “Now, we just need to go.”

  


The arrangements were done swiftly, and soon they were back in the middle of the threes, heading towards the ruins from where they hoped to plan their attack.

  



	10. Beacon of Might

 

It had been years since Artur had last been to the Castle of Ancient Kings, almost a whole decade, but the old fortress seemed immune to the whims of time. Perhaps there was more ivy encroaching on the walls, maybe a stone or two had fallen down from the tower crowns, but to this eyes, it looked exactly the same.

 

They still had at least another hour before they got there — a whole valley to cross and some steep parts on the hill they’d climb, but he now felt more at home than he had since the Federation Ships had first reached Camelot, weeks before. It was as if his own blood sang in happiness after seeing the structure.

 

Those were idly musings, he knew — poetics and emotions, which had no place in a warrior’s mind — but it felt true enough that it comforted him. The horses were tired and had barely been fed since their owners had died, and they, too, would need to find themselves food — hunting or gathering — if they meant to eat that day. With this in mind, he brought them all to a halt at the edge of the open valley.

 

“Behold the first hour of our proud line,” he told his sister, imitating his father’s tone for her benefit. It made her laugh, and the sound was a welcome change from the pale skin tone and unfocused eyes she had been showing more often then not since they had entered the farmhouse. He pointed towards it, and she assented to him with her head.

 

“Impressive,” she said, her tone teasing. “If a little old-fashioned.”

 

Compared to the sort of structure that she would be used to see in Coruscant and even the unending skyscrapers favoured by most worlds, there was no way that she could have seen it differently.

 

“Let’s stop for a moment — the horses need to rest and eat, and so do we. There are still at least four hours before the sun sets and our allies won’t arrive until tomorrow either way.”

 

“Come, Merlin, help me with the horses,” Nimueh said, and the boy hopped from Arthur’s mount with more grace than he would have expected.

 

“We have rations,” Morgana offered, but Arthur shock his head, declining.

 

“Best to save them for another moment — we may need them yet. I’ll hunt us some food.”

 

The two padawans eyed him, doubted clear in their posture and, sure, he only had his sword and shield with him, not the best tools to catch animals. Still, he had more than enough experience with the wild that he’d be able to fashion a trap from the things he could find in the woods alone — and he told them so before walking away.

 

Finding the perfect spot to position his deadly apparel, Arthur cleaned his mind of all thoughts but the task at hand. He worried not about his knights and whether they had met the others, not about his people, whose freedom had been stolen, not about the perils ahead or strategies he might use to conquer them. His whole mind was on the business of acquiring them food.

 

When he returned, one hour later, he had four rabbits to show. Unlike his friends, the Jedi seemed perfectly at ease with his disappearance. Normally, he would be received with exclamations of concern by his peers, but not from them. They were, Merlin included, sitting perfectly still on the ground, deep on meditation.

 

“I’ve never been gone so long without someone saying something about it!” He exclaimed as he approached them, his prey in hand.

 

“We sensed no danger,” Mordred explained, his face perfectly impassive; very different from what Arthur had seen the day before.

 

“Fear not,” completed Nimueh, her usual smirk back. “Had even the slightest hint of it came, we’d be by your side in a second — and long before anyone or anything else.”

 

They shared one of the rabbits for their midday meal, drinking clear and fresh water Nimueh and Merlin had procured from the river where they had watered the horses. Soon enough, they were back to the saddle.

 

“You look anxious,” Merlin said, from where he sat in front of Arthur.

 

“I am,” he confirmed, unashamed. “The fate of my whole planet rests on my decisions alone.”

 

“I see it,” the boy said, and Arthur could hear his frown. “It’s like when I run a race and I know I _can_ lose but I _can_ _’t_ let the pod be heavily damaged or mom and I will have to pay for it — Kanen would punish us for every part that needed to be replaced or fixed, even though it is an old pod, I was the one doing the fixing, and most parts we had to spare in the shop.”

 

Arthur grimaced at that — he couldn’t even begin to imagine how _hard_ life for Merlin had been before they came long — how much worse if must be for his mother and Will now that he was gone; Merlin’s loss adding up to their many sufferings.

 

Merlin had spoken, in his house, of becoming a Jedi and freeing all slaves, little knowing that there wasn’t much they could really do about it. At that moment, Arthur understood his reasoning even better, and wished to be able to do something about it.

 

But this was for later — if he ever lived to act on it. Now he needed to save his own people. Straightening his back, he rode ahead.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Leon hadn’t known what to expect when he came to the Ancient King’s Castle — a war council, a band of refugees, whatever. But he knew he hadn’t expected to walk into Arthur sparring with Mordred — blade against lightsaber — Morgana and Nimueh were training as well, but his eyes were glued to Arthur’s movements around the padawan. Instead of his usual sharp precision, he was using a more fluid style that was just as deadly. He moved closer than before and further away too. The padawan turned off his blade before Arthur had even noticed Leon’s arrival, stepping easily out of Arthur’s hit and bowing his back, ending the duel.

 

“Sir Leon,” he said, with a small nod. Arthur spun around in the same moment, and strode towards him, clapping his back with familiarity.

 

“Leon!” He exclaimed, with a content smile and sweat on his forehead, that soon was replaced by a frown. “Lancelot and Guinevere…?”

 

“Gathering us food for dinner,” he eased the King’s mind quickly.

 

“Good — so, tell me, how are my people?”

 

Leon gave him a detailed account of how evacuation had been done, how many losses had been counted during the time he had been away; their provisions in the cave and their communications with the Lords that were responsible for the outlying villages. Some messengers — such as Owain — had not yet returned, then again, frozen Ismere was so far away that without communications that, having to abstain from the fastest ways of travelling to avoid being caught, Leon hadn’t expected him to return with news of his dealings, but only with Lord Euchdag and his troops.

 

The seal with the kingdom had been left in Gwen’s capable hands, and she had put it too good use; sending missives bearing the mark of Arthur’s kingship along with the riders, telling the Lords that their levies should be summoned to protect their holdings while warriors, pilots and archers would march to fight under the King’s banner at the Citadel. She had scheduled their rendezvous to a fortnight after the invasion — three days hence. Either by pure coincidence or strategical knowledge shared, meant that Leon and Gwen had decided to amass the troops exactly in same place as Arthur was. Indeed, almost all preparations to leave had already been made by the time Lancelot arrived with Arthur’s summons.

 

The king seemed well pleased with their actions, and in turn had explained to him how they had managed to escape and all that had happened in his time away. Leon was consternated by his decision to make a move against Chancellor Annis, but if it meant that Senator Uther would become the next Supreme Chancellor, it might indeed prove to be a good change for them.

 

Being seven years older than Arthur, Leon had been knighted and first rose through ranks to become part of the King’s Personal Guard under Uther’s regime. He believed he knew the man well enough, and while Uther had his flaws as much as any other person, his loyalty to Camelot could never be faulted. He had made a strong king and later a persuasive senator, even if he hadn’t been raised to be either. That he was a powerful a warlord had surprised nobody, for this had been his calling and his fate from early age; from what Leon’s father had said.

 

They were still exchanging news by the time Lance and Gwen arrived and, forgetting all decorum, she had thrown herself at Arthur, her arms enveloping his neck, clinging to him as if she expected him to fade as a hologram. For a second, Arthur seemed surprised, before he held her back, hands on her waist, his head resting against her neck in a way that made his nose be half-buried in her hair.

 

It was a tender moment, and some might even read it as more than it was — as clearly was the case of his stupid and noble friend Lancelot, who didn’t ever made his feelings towards Guinevere clear in fear she truly loved the King in a romantic fashion.  It seemed that the Jedi as well as the mysterious young boy that now accompanied them were thinking something along the same lines. It was, also, a distinctively false impression, as he knew so well.

 

“I was so worried!” She chided, letting go of him and drying the tears that had fallen from her eyes. “I feared they would blast you out of the sky!”

 

“I’m not so easy to kill,” he calmed her, caressing her cheek. “Now, there are a few people I’d like you to meet.”

 

“You had already met Leon, my first knight;” Arthur said, turning to the party from the capital, and Leon leaned his head forward, acknowledging them. “And, of course, you’re all familiar with Lancelot — my best warrior, protector and man in general; the one in my right hand” Arthur smiled towards him, all charm turned on, and Lance bowed in acknowledgement of his words. “Now I’ll present you to the sensibility to Leon’s sense, the _de facto_ ruler of the Lower Town, the chatelaine of my castle and my left hand; Guinevere.”

 

Gwen blushed immediately and shook her head, in fake annoyance.

 

“I’m no ruler, I merely serve at your pleasure — and that of the people,” turning towards the outsiders, she curtsied. “Masters — it is an honour.”

 

“Allow me to introduce them properly,” he said, tucking her hand in his elbow and walking closer to them. Gwen had the ability to make a gentleman out of Arthur, which was both annoying and funny at times. “This is Master Nimueh, an experienced Guardian of the Jedi Order, who fought with my father during the Albion Wars.” Gwen smiled, but the Master Jedi’s face moved just the tiniest bit upwards in one of the sides. “And Mordred, her padawan and an exquisite swordsman.” The boy’s face was equally smooth, betraying nothing but a neutral acceptance of Gwen. “This is Merlin — he is a better pilot than even Elyan and already something of a legend in pod racing.”

 

“So young!” Gwen exclaimed, and the boy frowned at her for a moment before his face became serious.

 

“I’m in disguise,” the kid explained, his voice low.

 

Gwen clearly wondered at it for a moment, and it was always funny to watch her when she made — or thought she had made — a faux pas because her face glowed red and she kept stammering, hoping to fix her blunder. Then Arthur laughed at the comment, shaking his head fondly at the boy, before moving on.

 

“And last, but definitely not least, Guinevere, it is my honour to introduce you to Her Royal Highness Princess Morgana Pendragon of Camelot, holder of a Consular Padawan position in the Jedi order and, from what I’ve heard, just about to be promoted.”

 

“Clearly, my dear brother has a serious issue with giving people titles they don’t hold,” Morgana conspired with Gwen, and the second woman giggled.

 

“I am beyond honoured either way,” she curtsied again. “We’ve all heard great things about you.”

 

Morgana snorted and shook her head, but their conversation was cut short by Percival’s arrival, with Elyan in tow. The Captain of Pilots had a deep cut over his eyebrow and a split lip, but those were all the marks he brought from his confrontation with the Trade Federation’s troops. They were minor injuries, but Gwen fussed over her brother either way, while he filled them in into the developments he had witnessed. The damage in his face had been caused by fallen debris when the Trade Federation had shot into the tower he had been using to aim at their ships, and no droids had found him in his hide out.

 

Arthur allowed it to go on for a while, before he cleared his throat.

 

“Let’s take this to somewhere better,” he said, walking inside another chamber. They all followed, unsure about what Arthur was looking for, until he stopped in one of the chambers and smiled at seemingly nothing. The king walked forward, and held the corner of a sheet before he pulled it out. Under it, they could see a wide round table, divided equally in ten parts. Each place held a its own markings in the language of the old kings, and it was beautifully adorned. There was a whole in the middle, but it didn’t detract from it’s look. Upon each division there was a chair, equally carved in wood. Arthur walked around it, until the stopped in front of one of the chairs, facing them all.

 

“Come and join me,” he requested, and they approached, unsure of what to do. “This table belonged to the ancient kings of Camelot;” he said, looking at each one of them. “They believed in equality and balance in all things, and that was what led them to join the Republic, because even if Camelot’s always been a Monarchy, our values and those of the republic are one and the same. So, it seems fitting that we revive this tradition now. Without each of you, we would not be here — and our resistance would not be possible. My people have suffered for too long. In three days, I make my bid to rescue them. Are any around this table who will join me?”

 

There could have been no question of it, not before and certainly not then, but it was a beautiful gesture, giving them the chance to back down, to protect themselves. It was yet another symbol of the equality and the bond they had always said were the foundation of the Knights of Camelot — and with this, he was pledging his honour into guaranteeing that, even as a King, he would not accept differentiations between them.

 

Coming to seat at his right hand, as was his honour, Lancelot was the first to speak.

 

“You’ve taught me values of being a knight, a code by which a man would live his life,” and, indeed, Lancelot had been the first of them to be fully trained and approved by Arthur alone, against Uther’s wishes, for he had not approved the knighting of man that were not of noble blood. “To fight with honour for justice, freedom and all that is good. I believe in the world that you’ve been trying to build.”

 

 

Arthur lowered his head, accepting his pledge. Surprisingly, Morgana was the next to walk, taking the place at his left, that would normally be reserved for Gwen — although no one would question her right to sit there, giving up her title or not.

 

“It’s not the path I’ve chosen to walk, but not one I can turn my back to either, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She teased, and he smiled at her. He opened up his arms, putting one around his sister, and they shared an awkward hug — Leon did not doubt it was the first time they’d done it, perhaps may even be the last.

 

“You know the answer,” said Gwen, sitting herself next to Lancelot, and Arthur, still standing, shared a trusting look with her.

 

Leon could not, for his honour, wait any longer than that.

 

“I’ve fought alongside you many times,” he said, walking next to their lost princess. “I’ve trained you, and watched you — from a squire to a knight, from knight to prince, from prince to King — and I am extremely proud of the man you’ve become.” He felt his face heating for speaking so openly of it, but at least he had a beard to hide it. Arthur had no such protection, and lowered his eyes. “There is no one I would rather die for, Sire.”

 

Arthur just nodded at his words, but it was written in his face how thankful he was for what he had said.

 

“Even though I was a nobody, a commoner, you were willing to lay down your life for me, Arthur. You believed in me, and gave me a purpose when others turned their back. This is my chance to repay you in kind.”

 

Elyan sat next to his sister, and the two of them traded smiles. Percival came next.

 

“Your enemies are my enemies,” he reminded the King, sitting to Leon’s left.

 

Arthur looked at the three remaining people, before he spoke again.

 

“I _know_ you have your own loyalties, and serve powers that are not temporal, but it would mean much to me if you accepted a place in my table, and advised us to the best of our capacities.”

 

Mordred was the first to step ahead, a smile in his face.

 

“Arthur, the bond we share is more important than the power we yield,” Arthur smiled at him, making Leon wonder just how much it meant.

 

Nimueh acquiesced to his request with her head.

 

“I have fought for Camelot before, and I am ready to do it again. My mission is to protect you — and if to do it, I must join you in this battle, so I will.”

 

She sat next to Elyan, leaving one empty space. The young boy Arthur had introduced as Merlin kept on standing.

 

“Merlin?” Arthur asked, just as a matter of form. It was not as if a child as young as Merlin would turn the tide of the battle.

 

“I don’t really fancy it!” He said, his eyes crinkling from amusement.

 

“You don’t have a choice, Merlin,” the King said, hilarity clear in his tone.

 

“Ok then,” the boy said, shrugging and sitting down. “But I’m _not_ to fight, I’m to _watch_ them and learn,” he said, with a serious nod towards Master Nimueh, and they all laughed.

 

“It is only the support of your heart that I ask for,” Arthur said, and the two of them smiled at each other.

 

“That you will always have, prat!” Although the words might not be their finest, it was clear in the child’s eyes a sort of adoration that Arthur could so easily provoke in people.

 

“I want to thank you all for staying loyal to me in Camelot’s hour of need,” he said, solemn. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a war to plan.”

 

* * *

 

 

Three days passed faster than Mordred might have expected. Each day brought fresh troops, trickling in small groups, coming in secret to the castle. The ruins he had first entered seemed transformed by the sheer amount of people that were around. It bode well for Camelot, even if it made meditating harder.

 

They all had received their cues: Gwen was to stay behind with a few of the people, setting up an infirmary for those who got injured in combat. Percival was to lead the van, while the different lords would follow him. Archers would come first, their electric arrows probably would deactivate hordes of droids, and, if shot precisely and fast enough, might even hold back some of the Droidekas.

 

Elyan, Lancelot, Leon and Arthur with the rest of their original party would infiltrate the Citadel through the same escape tunnels that the people had used to run away from the Trade Federation. Their first stop was to be the main hangar of the palace, where, according to Elyan, most of their pilots were being held prisoner. Once they were free, they’d quickly run to their fighter crafts under Elyan’s lead, and leave to try and destroy the ship that controlled the droids in land. From there, they’d follow to the throne room, where it was likely that Vice-Roy Alined would be, and arrest him for his crimes; as a Consular, it would be in Morgana’s hands to handle him once he had been subdued and try and find a way to reconcile the two warring parties.

 

Nimueh and Mordred’s order had been clear — protect Arthur and find his mystery attacker — therefore they wouldn’t leave him for a second, unless the Sith showed up again.

 

It was a solid plan, but Mordred was still surprised at how smooth was their arrival to the palace. It was just their luck that nobody had thought of locking the pilots down the dungeons, or they’d have to cross the courtyard with them, leaving them much more exposed to the invaders. The tunnels left them just two corridors from the main hangar, and with the appearance of their main force in the field in front of the Citadel, those weren’t being patrolled.

 

They were at the door when Nimueh turned around, eyeing Merlin critically. She had tried to leave him in the Ancient Castle with them, but the boy’s was as stubborn as the Master, and had followed them through the tunnels, and by the time they found him, they were so far into their path that there was no choice but to let him tag along.

 

“Once we get inside, you’ll find a safe place to hide and _stay there_.”

 

“Sure,” he said, but Mordred doubted that he’d follow this order.

 

She pointed a finger at him, sternly.

 

“ _Stay there_!”

 

There was a tiny hint of compulsion in her voice, a power that was always doubtful to work in the strong minded, but either because of it or because he now truly feared to displease her, the fight seemed to go out of him.

 

“I will.”

 

Arthur pressed the doors open, and Mordred and Morgana assumed their places, leading the group. It was clear the battle droids were both alarmed by the first sounds of the fight outside, and by their sudden appearance. Their clear Jedi robes made them falter for a second, and it was all they needed. Springing from behind them in a sudden movement, Leon and Lancelot made twin cuts with their swords, throwing away their weapons.

 

“Find cover,” he heard Nimueh urge, before her lightsaber came on. Following her lead, Mordred and Morgana did the same.

 

Mordred cut the first droid to come at him in two, before reflecting the shot from another back at him. For a moment, he could see nothing but the moves he needed to make to survive, keenly aware of Morgana’s continuous slashing and Nimueh’s talented work on his other side. The rest of them seemed to be doing equally well, and there was no sign of Merlin, which probably was a good thing.

 

“To your ships!” Elyan yelled to his charges, and the battle droids were too focused on them to stop the pilots and droids from reaching them. Just one of the pilots was shot, and that was a tragedy, surely, but not such a big one as to foil their plans. Mordred made a small prayer to the Force to receive him well, but kept moving, fighting, trying to guarantee their escape.

 

The first ships begun to levitate and leave the hangar, but it meant nothing but that the command realised something more than the battle outside was happening, and they deployed more droids to come their way. Mordred had no time to look around while he kept on fighting them.

 

Eventually, there were no more droids.

 

Arthur turned, looking at them.

 

“Time to go to the throne room,” he announced, and Nimueh nodded.

 

All fighters had left now, save for one in the very back. From the cockpit, a small head appeared, calling them.

 

“Wait for me!” Merlin said, eager, but Nimueh shook her head.

 

“Stay here - you’ll be safe.”

 

“But —” he tried, and she shook her head.

 

“Just stay in the cockpit.”

 

They walked towards the exit, the Jedi in the back of the group now. They were almost at the door when it opened itself before they could reach it. On the other side, was the very reason for their coming to Camelot.

 

The man in front of them was dressed in black from head to toe, his head completely shaved and his whole skin tattooed in strips of black and red. The right side of his face seemed to have melted, falling down in drapes, almost wrinkled although the other side gave away how young he was.

 

“We’ll handle this,” said Nimueh, pushing ahead of them, Mordred and Morgana on her sides. “Morgana, go with them.”

 

He could feel his friend’s annoyance in this, but she complied.

 

“We can take the servant’s hallways,” Leon said, and they started to move to the left of the room.

 

The Sith didn’t take notice of them, taking off his hood instead. The two of them repeated the movement, freeing themselves from the extra cloth.

 

This was the battle they had come for.

 

 


	11. Shroud of Darkness

Merlin felt his heart tremble with fear when he saw the dark man that had injured Master Gaius appear on the door. Remembering the questions of the Jedi Council, though, he tried to control his feelings — Master Gaius had been old and grey, a man for conversation and politics, while Master Nimueh was young and trained to battle. She would be fine, and so would Mordred and Morgana.

The noise of something rolling on the marble floor brought his attention to the other side of the room. Three wheeled droids had just rolled in, and were about to transform into their battle position. The I2 unit that had been ready to help the fallen pilot to fly the fighter where he was sitting chirped to him, and there was nothing much he could say back to the droid.

He saw as Arthur and the two knights ran for cover, unsure of what to do now — if there we more coming. The corner of Merlin’s eyes caught the brightness of lightsabers being turned on — Azure and blue against Red. The droids were firing now, while the knights and the king held their shields close to each other, trying to keep safe, while Morgana’s yellow blade seemed ready to meet each shot, reflecting them back at the two droids that had singled her out.

It stood to reason that a fighter like this would have weapons — not precise enough that he might help the Jedi, but the droids had probably already learnt that coming too close to a knight of Camelot would mean their inevitable demise, and kept their distance. It should be hard to blast them, if only he could find out where.

Looking around the console, he flipped the switch that turned the systems on. Within a fraction of a second, they were levitating, and the droid in his ship whistled a reply — they had never met before, but Merlin had the distinct impression that this one was a woman, of sorts, and had quite a temper.

“I’m trying to do something!” He said, hoping it’d understand. “I just don’t know where the trigger is.”

He pushed a red button, but it only brought him forward — in the correct direction, yes, his left hand had never left the tiny half-wheel, but still not what he was aiming for. He pulled a lever, hoping it would charge, but the only result was that the cockpit sealed over his head.

The next one did the trick: it was almost too easy — he simply pressed the buttons in the top of his wheel and it aimed and fired at the droids, destroying all them. He saw Arthur’s surprised face at the same time as the droid chirped happily.

The king lost no time in nodding to him in thanks and leaving through a smaller corridor than the one they had came from. The moment of distraction was all Merlin couldn’t have afforded. I2 beeped again and he noticed he was still going forward. He tried all the controls — including the one that had turned on the navigation — but it was useless.

“Oh, we’re on automatic pilot!” he told the droid.

In a moment, they were being flown out of the hangar and flying high into the sky, higher than Merlin had ever flown before. He held the wheel tightly, knowing there was little else he could do for now.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  
A part of Arthur — a heroic, stupid, loyal part of him — wanted nothing more than to join the Jedi in battle. If he was, indeed, a Sith, this man was a menace not only to himself or Camelot, but to the whole Republic, to everything it upheld. Another part of him — the commander, king and strategist — knew better than to get in the middle of a combat like that. He might be good, even exceptional, as a duellist, but he’d never be able to truly face someone who had knowledge of the Force — Light or Dark — to draw upon. That fight was to be handled by others — there were things that he alone could accomplish.

Along with his sister, Lancelot and Leon, he started towards the servant’s hallway, but his dash was interrupted when four droids rolled in, blocking their path — two aimed at Morgana, and the other two at them. What they intended to do what as obvious as their lack of free will, so it was a habit, not true need, that led him to speak.

“On me!” he called to his knights, turning on his shield, and the Pendragon Dragon on the red field came to his protection.

The three of them had trained together, worked together, fought together so many times before that they were almost an oiled machine; parts blending seamlessly into a whole. Their arms joined with practised ease, creating a wall to defend them from the shooting. As one, they stepped forward, and the droids scurried back in the same measure, keeping their distance.

This was good — it meant they had learnt enough that they wouldn’t want to get too close to them — which could only mean that they did not have shields to protect against their attack. It would take a while — longer than he had expected to take to leave the hangar — but, eventually, in his dance, they’d be able to push them back to the hallways and finish them — the close quarters complicating their flight and working in the knights’ advantage; as long as more droids didn’t come while they were in the open space that had been occupied by ships. Arthur rose his head, trying to discern if there was movement in the hallway they had come from, but the sound of clashing lightsabers was almost deafening as it rang through the air. To complete the chaos, now, the ship that had been left without a pilot was moving towards them — and fast.

“Reverse!” he yelled at Leon and Lancelot, and the three of them stepped back just in time t avoid the fighter’s nose, while Morgana, having finished the first of the droids, had done a somersault, moving towards the other end of the room and slashing at her second attacker with her yellow lightsaber. They now could see into the cockpit and Arthur, at least, wasn’t that surprised to find Merlin inside it. It figured that, when asked to hide by Nimueh, he’d have chosen to sit inside a ship.

More shocking was the explosion that followed, wiping away the droids in their way. Arthur turned back to the child, in awe and gratefulness, acknowledging the help with a nod before rushing into the open path that would lead him towards Alined and, hopefully, an end to the conflict.

“I feel like we’re missing a hell of a fight,” he commented to Lancelot, coming behind him.

“We have our own trials to face,” Morgana reminded them, and Arthur barked out a laugh.

“Yes — let’s beat them.”

It was easier said than done, as everything in life. They had been right in thinking that the Trade Federation, with this illusions of grandeur, wouldn’t be patrolling the spaces in which only those who were considered invisible threaded. For people who put so much faith into droids to protect them, they were quick to dismiss those whose labour was seen as more menial. That, allied with the fact that he and Leon had grown up on the Castle, playing and hiding into each nook and corner, gave them the high ground on the battle.

Still wasn’t enough to guarantee a victory.

They had come out as stealthily as they could through the back of the Throne Room, and the voice of the Vice-Roy could be clearly heard.

“It was supposed to be further away from us,” he complained, “this battle is too close!”

“Don’t worry, master,” said the man by his side. “They’re savages, and won’t stand against the droids for long — they’ll break, specially since their King ran away.”

Arthur had wanted to show himself immediately after it, to show them that he hadn’t abandoned his people — that he never would.

“You’ve heard him, Trickler!” Alined shook his head. “King Arthur is back in Camelot — that is why he’s sent Darth Muirden.”

“Yes,” the second man agreed, and seemed worried. “But — a Sith Lord — that is more than enough to guarantee he is killed.”

“Let’s hope so, for your sake.” The Vice-Roy said, his voice threatening.

Leon and Lancelot had been moving slowly, in the shadow, getting ready to approach from the opposite side of the room while Arthur and Morgana attacked from the left, and the two man were still completely oblivious to them, and even the droids weren’t smarter.

That was, until Morgana froze, her eyes unfixing, stopping mid-movement, before a wail left her lips.

“Mordred! Nimueh!” she called into nothing, barely more than a whisper, but coupled with the movement from her robes as she spun around quickly, it was enough.

One of the battle droids — the newest model, not the one that they had deployed en mass to attack the Camelotians — caught their movement and fired immediately, while Morgana ran back through the door they came from, mindless of their shooting. Alined and Trickler were standing as soon as they could, and chaos erupted again. There were over twenty droids in the room, and all the three of them could do was to use the cover of the pillars along with their shields to stop being hit — and at first, it was overwhelming enough that the two man managed to run towards the door in the back that led to the council chamber.

Lancelot tried to catch them, but a shot came too close to him, and in halting to avoid it, he missed them. The huge wooden doors closed with a loud bang, even in the midst of the shooting — but their safety meant nothing to the battle droids, that kept trying to hit their mark. They would not stop while they breathed — which could be for little enough time unless some miracle happened soon.

The miracle’s name was Leon.

Tumbling through the ground, he came to a halt next to the sovereign seat and pushed up the hidden button under the right arm. The effect was almost immediate, the last resource his father had envisioned — and that Arthur had called useless and neurotic — now came to save them. An energy shield separated the two meters ahead of the throne from the rest of the room, where most droids were.

Three of them remained inside with them, but three battle droids were no match for a Knight of Camelot. Leon rose, his sword in the air and cut through the knee of the closest one, while Arthur swirled his sword in his hand before throwing his arm into a long arc, cutting of the head of the nearest one. Lancelot was as graceful as always as he pushed himself in two quick strides to stab another through the armour and into it’s mechanical heart.

Arthur was pushing the council door immediately, but it didn’t budge.

“They must have locked it” he muttered, going for the panel and trying to override the code, but the alarm indicated that nothing had been locked.

Arthur frowned, while Leon laughed.

“Well, they must have used savage methods to keep it closed.”

The old bar was kept mostly as a decoration, but it seemed to have been put to its proper usage now, after centuries. Well, it was ironic that after dismissing their culture as barbaric they would choose to use something as simple as a bar to keep themselves safe..

“On the bright side,” Lancelot’s voice was as calm as ever. “There is no way for them to get out unless they fancy a really high jump — and somehow I don’t think they do.”

Arthur turned around, looking at the throne room. More droids had come inside — new battle droids, Droidekas, and what not, all shooting at the shield.

“Leon,” he said, turning to the older man. “How long is this thing supposed to last for?”

The red haired man looked at his wristwatch for a moment before replying, his face grim.

“Twenty minutes.”

The shield was but a temporary measure. Either they found a way in the room and arrested the two representatives of the Trade Federation, or they’d soon have a whole army of droids to deal with.

“Well,” he sighed, hating the feeling that there was nothing he could do. “Let’s hope that Elyan can work his magic fast enough then.”

If the pilots hadn’t managed to finish up the droid control in twenty minutes, they’d be completely screwed.

* * *

 

To an astromech, this I2 unit surely was talkative. Through their whole rise to space, it had kept chirping and whistling and screaming. It was not really understandable, but the screen-panel translated much of it — or at least tried to. Merlin had the feeling that if he got locked inside the ship for 3 days, he’d become fluent in… Well, whatever language that was. I2-SA was very fierce in her disapproval of their flying out of the planet, and soon it became clear why.

There was a full battle going on. All fighters he had seen at the hangar were now spread through the sky, closing in to the huge ship that Mordred had said that was controlling the droids. Once they were out in open space, their communications came on, and Merlin could hear them talking. The huge ship was firing, and the pilots were trying to dodge, but it was clear that their autopilot had already locked in and would carry them forward either way.

“Their shield is too strong!” Someone said over the comms.

One of the fighters was hit, right behind him, and Merlin jumped on his seat.

He pulled in the helmet as soon as he could, talking to I2-SA at the same time.

“Get us out of this autopilot — this will get us both killed.”

Chirps and yells came through as a response, while he fastened the helmet under his jaw, and once his hands came back to the steering wheel, it already felt different.

“You did it!” he exclaimed, happily, and the droid seemed to be excited about it too. He tried turning left, and the ship responded easily.

Freedom to fly, at least.

I2-SA, on the other hand, seemed to think this was freedom to run.

“I’m not going back.” Merlin told it, his voice firm. “Nimueh told me to stay in the cockpit, and I’m doing exactly that.”

The astromech voiced the idea that this was the opposite of what she had intended, but Merlin paid it no mind. He was more focused on the fighters the enemies were sending his way. He knew how to fire now, but didn’t want to — not when he could just rush ahead.

This was better than running.

More risky, too.

He tried to evade the two fighters that were now on his tail, but it they seemed to know what he was doing well enough to fall for it.

“Let’s try something more radical,” he told I2-SA, and rolled the ship, spinning wildly, 360, 720, 1080 degrees at once, and they just couldn’t hit him through the irregular movement, their shots going wide and closer to the ship they were meant to be defending than to the one they had been attacking.

I2-SA was not amused. Not even slightly.

“I know we’re in trouble,” he answered, annoyed. “Just hang on.”

Pushing the accelerator, he tried to get closer to the ship. It was the only way to end all this.

* * *

 

It was not the sort of battle he had prepared for all his life. Droids, soulless and with little understanding, stood ahead of them. There would be no honour in this combat — but Percival would do what needed to be done.

  
He had positioned his troops long before the droids had managed to arrive, and he did have the high ground — how much that was worth against blasters was yet to be seen.

“Archers!” He shouted, the wind carrying his voice, and they stepped ahead. “On my count,” he warned, but it was pure form. Even having come from a dozen different places, they knew what they had to do. “One — Two — Three.”

The droids were still finishing their position, but it didn’t matter. The plasma arrows flew through the air, making it shimmer with their heat, and found their marks. Percival watched impassively as dozens of droids fell down — but droids were not like men. It didn’t discourage them at all. He felt the air vibrate as the second and third volley rushed past his head, and most found their marks, although sometimes two or three would hit the same droid. A waste, but it couldn’t be helped.

Blood and bones and sinew he was ready to face — but there was something that made him almost queasy in the trembling blue electricity that ran through the droids bodies as they, for a lack of a better word, died.

Although they could not think like humans did, droids — specially battle droids — were not stupid. They caught up pretty quick with their strategy and retreated beyond the reach of the arches bows that were taller than most men. Percival needed a moment only to understand what they meant to do, the forms rolling forward recognisable even in their rapid movement.

“To the rear!” He called to archers, stepping back into the line. “Raise shields!”

It was a manoeuvre they had practised for days, and not an easy one. Each man on the first five or six lines brought their shields to their body, the ones on the lines behind covering the upper chest, shoulders and head being protected by the man behind them. It went on and on until the end, each man protecting his peer. The coloured motifs diminished visibility, but it was better than the alternative. The cortosi metal on their greaves kept them from most of the laser shots, but they couldn’t be used on helmets — the particles in them poisoning the wearer — so the formation guaranteed that the warriors would be protected from the blasters even though there were many unprotected spaces between the vambrace and the breastplate. Most of them could not afford gorgets.

“Wedge!” he called, then, and he felt although he could not see when the lines behind him curved on themselves, turning into a powerful blade. “And march!”

Progress was slow, but continuous, and there was nothing the Droidekas could do but to keep shooting from behind their shields, the rest of their army doing the same, looking for spaces, but Percival knew how well trained the warriors there were.

“Let’s see how much this damn shields work against real blades!” he told his comrades, and as one they moved ahead.

* * *

 

Nimueh lived in the Force — that how she knew, deep inside her heart, that this man in front of them was a Sith. It was more than being enamoured by the Dark Side, the man was consumed. He lived in it as much as she did not. The man turned on his lightsaber, blocking the left side of the door with his red light — and it didn’t matter how good he was, one against two was a fight that could not be lost.

Then a second blade came out out of the other side of his handler.

It was a weapon fashioned to create fear in lesser hearts, but it was as traitorous as it was impressive. The young Sith might think it would give him the advantage, but he adidn’t count on how it affect his mobility, and certainly didn’t expect one of his opponents to be using the same. His reach would have been longer, but the benefit was lost against her, and there were but a few ways to move it, compared to the myriad of possibilities a single blade offered.

Nimueh lost no time in turning on both blades on her saber, showing him they were evenly matched — discounting Mordred. She moved ahead, clashing her azure lightsaber against the red flash of light, pushing him away. The man was talented, because he seemed well prepared for the possibility, adjusting his body almost immediately and sweeping the other side where Mordred had been a moment ago. Mordred hit the other side, too, while Morgana seemed to be doing just fine with the droids.

If they could coordinate well, they could leave his body open for her sure thrust while Mordred distracted him.

The man seemed to notice the possibility as soon as it crossed their heads, and stepped sideways, moving the fight — Mordred was now on his back, while Nimueh kept parrying with him. The Sith’s eyes never met hers — just instinct reacted to her slashes, his eyes were on Morgana.

The man kept on walking backwards, and they kept pushing their advantage — if it could be so called. He was light on his feet, jumping at Mordred’s attempts to hit his feet, back flips coming as easily as breathing.

Nimueh had always hated the Ataru style, but she couldn’t deny it took a lot of ability to use it with a doublesaber.

Removing one hand from the blade, the man did a force thrust towards one of the doors on the left side of the room, and it opened up to show a large power plant — the generator for the whole Castle. It was clear that he was trying to take them inside, and she hated the feeling of being lured — on the other hand, it’d take them further away from Arthur — which was always a good thing.

The place was filled with catwalks in different levels, narrow and slippery, a mere way for the rare droids that served in Camelot to check on the machinery inside. The sound of the lightsabers crashing echoed on the empty walls, reverberating back at them, and for a second, it seemed as if there were dozens of Jedi fighting.

She saw the man smirk, the burnt side of his face twisting in a evil look before he jumped back. Nimueh tried for a slash, but missed the leg by inches. He landed a few meters back, on another catwalk, his black robes meshing easily with the metal under his feet.

Mordred and her didn’t need to even share a look to jump ahead, using the Force to propel them to the other side. Her padawan already landed with his blade crashing the Sith’s above their heads, and it gave her a moment to check on Morgana — left on the other side of the door. It had been a wise decision to send her with Arthur; there was no way she could follow them — the catwalk was not wide enough, and between the three blades, the risk was just too big. She had to follow her own trial, find her own way, not follow theirs. It was what the council had warned her about.

She knew she couldn't allow her mind to be taken by such matters, or she would be risking too much in a fight. She moved her blade up to attack, but the Sith just forced Mordred’s down while the second part of his blade moved up to meet hers. She kept on pushing, the Sith now locked between the two of them, and now the double blade was working against him. He could not move, nor attack, only react to their thrusts and stabs. Clearly, he noticed it, and his eyes widened as he tried to figure out a way to get rid of them.

Analytically, it was a beautiful movement — although too full of hatred to be completely effective. The Sith waited until Mordred threw his weight against the blade, trying to unbalance him, and simple turned the side not facing Nimueh off, jumping and pressing against her. Mordred lost his balance with it, and the Sith used the opportunity to turn in a sidekick, causing him to fall from the platform.

From far away, she heard Morgana’s voice yelling for Mordred — through the Force, as an echo in her mind, far away and not immediate — but her eyes were still on the dark lord, trying to find any opening. His defence was far more effective than she would have expected from someone so full of hatred, and it left her little option but to use his own movement against him. As he jumped again towards her, using his bigger size to his advantage, she merely jumped back to the initial platform, leaving him to fall under his own momentum.

The man’s luck was that he had landed in a platform right underneath the one they had been standing — she could see Mordred trying to return, having fallen a few levels bellow. Still, the Sith’s reflexes were quick and he ran from her view, going under the place she was.

She was not going to wait for an attack. Nimueh jumped down, landing in the platform bellow, and the Sith was immediately ready for her — both sides turned on again, using it to defend and attack at the same time. Alone with her, the double blade was more effective, though not as much as if would have been if he had been alone with Mordred and his single blade. Still he kept walking backwards, into another small door. Undoubtedly he meant to use the old divide and conquer strategy, but she could hear the padawan approaching and didn’t worry too much.

It was a perilous way that he had decided to follow — not only in becoming what he was, but in the very place he had decided to hide. Nimueh could see the rays that came on and off in a pulsing pattern, and she knew they’d be deadly to the touch. Around once a minute, they’d all lock in, before opening again in turn — like a heart, contracting and relaxing to feed the body. Over a hundred hives stood on the long corridor that they were now entering in their battle.

His timing was good, and he managed to walk through over half of the hives, Nimueh pushing at every second, blade against blade in a clash of power. She could hear Mordred approaching. The Sith made a swift movement backwards just in time, and managed to keep himself in a different hive than her when it locked again. He looked particularly angry at this turn of events.

Two hives separated her from the dark lord — a quick probing showed that around forty separated her from Mordred. The woman went quiet, while the men paced — the Sith using his blade to hit the wall and causing short circuits. Kneeling on the floor, Nimueh allowed the Force to take control of her.

_Emotion, yet peace._  
_Ignorance, yet knowledge._  
_Passion, yet serenity._  
_Chaos, yet harmony._  
_Death, yet the Force._

This was all that mattered. This was all that existed. This was the reality.

In the Force, she waited.

* * *

 

All the manoeuvres he had learnt to avoid crashing and trying to finish podraces were almost useless now — with no limits in space, it was harder to avoid the enemies that continued to pour to their pursuit. The Camelot pilots kept trying, shooting and aiming, but nothing they did seemed to be enough to get the shield off.

I2-SA was right — this was no place for him. Still, he could not return and just let them here — Arthur and his knights were fighting in the palace, the army was engaged in battle on the field, Morgana, Mordred and Nimueh were facing pure darkness. Merlin was no longer so much of a child that he would be able to live with himself if he didn’t do anything to help.

He was, regardless of what others said, not a child at all.

Spinning, he avoided yet another pursuer, who ended up crashing against their own ship — and then, someone got lucky.

I2-SA beeped a high alert, and the whole ship shook as someone managed to hit their rear. Merlin tried without success to keep a hold of the fighter, but it was no use — the controls were not responding. A electricity shot, it seemed — not laser. The most he could do was throw his whole wheel sideways as they lost height, sliding right inside the very place where their enemies were being deployed to fight them back.

There fighter skidded ahead in the smooth floor, throwing dozens of droids away. I2 screamed in alarm, but there was little he could do.

“I’m trying to stop, I’m trying!” He answered, annoyed at her continuous beeps.

Pulling the reverse thrusters completely, he managed to stop their insane spinning for a moment. Of course, it was also helped by the sheer continuous friction of the ground. The panel turned red, as if they were completely out of fuel, but the arrow indicated that they were okay in that aspect.

I2 yelled yet again — the droids that hadn’t been thrown away were approaching, but at least, so far, none of the double doors in the end of the room showed signs of movement. Kanen had had many sayings about the old things they bought and resold, but three he had always repeated — first being that most of the times, restarting fixed the problem immediately. He tried that, but it was no use. Reseting would be his next suggestion, but it wasn’t as if he had any idea how to reset this fighter. His last one had always given him the creeps: that machines often and against all logic reacted well to some minor beating.

There was nothing he could do, he was completely trapped. Merlin hit the panels in frustration: he had not left Tatooine to be killed by droids in his first battle. It was not fair. And, just according to his old owner’s beliefs, it was exactly what made the panel turn back green. It made him shudder for a second before yelling at I2

“WE HAVE POWER — SHIELDS UP!”

The astromech lost no time in complying, and with a flip of a switch, they were hovering over the ground again, knocking down the approaching captain. The rest immediately fired, but their hand weapons were no match for the ship’s shields. Repeating his earlier actions, he turned around and shoot them with his own lasers. One of the doors was suddenly filled with droids and even more came to pour in, and Merlin decided that the best thing he did was using a torpedo. The first one landed with a deafening explosion, and even inside he could smell the burning metal. The second one missed, though, going through the secondary door and exploding inside.

There was something wrong there.

Something very wrong.

When the first torpedo had hit the droids, the fire had come and gone in a second, it’s destructive power burning fiercely but quickly. Now, it seemed to increase and last — I2 beeped warning that the temperature inside was spiking. It didn’t take a genius to figure out it shouldn’t be happening.

A woman’s voice came through the comms.

“What is that? It’s blowing up from inside!”

“We didn’t hit it!” Elyan answered, and the whole structure seemed to be twisting around Merlin.

Wasting no time, he pulled back, under I2’s continuous expletives, and with a 180 degree turn, he started speeding back out — just as the fire reached the hangar. It was a mad race, for his own life, trying to be faster than the angry explosion he had unwittingly summoned.

“This is podracing!” He said through the comms as he came back to open space.

“One of ours!” the woman said, again.

“Merlin?” the captain’s voice rang again. “Merlin, what are you doing here?”

“Blowing the ship, captain, what does it seem like I’m doing?”

“Speed up!” He ordered, if to him or the whole group, Merlin didn’t know or care. “This isn’t gonna be pretty.”

Together, they rushed away, far from the exploding ship, making a curve towards the side of the planet that was in darkness.

“Entering atmosphere” Elyan warned, and they followed him in a V. “Head to the plains ahead of the White Mountains. Copy?” he told the pilots.

“Copy,” they all responded, Merlin among them, although he had no clue where the White Mountains were or how to get there — surely it couldn’t be too hard, following a whole group of ships.

“Not you, Merlin!” He chided “You follow me back to the capital — and I don’t even want to see what Master Nimueh will do with you when she finds out.”

Merlin wanted to be worried, he did, but he couldn’t help but laugh. He had done his part — he had helped — and whatever punishment he got, it would be worth it.

* * *

 

Percival was counting on it, but still, it was a shock to see the droids simply fall down at a certain point. They had been in the thick of it, cutting and crushing them, and they had just stopped. Standing for the first time in almost an hour, he looked to the sky — he would have to pay Elyan a drink, later, to thank him for this.

* * *

 

The shield was already starting to shimmer, as if it was about to fade, when the droids fell down in the throne room. Lancelot, Leon and Arthur just stared, unsure of how to react.

When they kept on not moving, Arthur gestured towards Lancelot.

“Turn it off” he said, walking to where the shield ended.

The knight complied immediately, and as soon as Arthur was free, he walked on, picking up a blaster from one of the droids. It was weird and ungainly, and while he was a decent shot, he didn’t know if he’d ever get used to it. At the moment, though, it was the best that they could do.

Turning around, he aimed at the wooden door that had sealed the council chamber and pulled the trigger. One blast burned it a bit, but after a couple more turns, the handles cracked under the pressure and Leon pulled them open.

Inside, Vice-Roy Alined and Trickler where crouching — they looked more like rats than men, and Arthur felt disgusted. Throwing the damned weapon back down and picking up his sword again, he walked through the doors his knights were guarding.

“Now, Vice-Roy, we will discuss a new treaty.”

Under his gaze, Lancelot and Leon let go of their shields, took hold of the men, holding them by their arms, swords ready in the opposite hand, and turned to leave. Arthur followed behind, so he couldn’t see Leon’s face, but years of knowing each other were enough that he was able to imagine it as he looked at the scorch marks on the throne room, the debris, the damaged pillars and doors.

“This will cost a fortune in renovations!” He bemoaned, and Arthur could truly, honestly, laugh without a care in the world for the first time in weeks.

* * *

 

It was not too late.

Morgana arrived at the power plant, and the sounds of lightsaber clashing led her towards the corridor she had seen in her vision — running as fast as she could, she watched as Mordred did the same, Nimueh quite ahead, slashing and thrusting with a ferocity she had never seen before as they walked out of the corridor and into the melting pit room. This was not her normal style, this was controlled passion, full fluidity, something Morgana herself could never achieve.

She would never reach them in time, but Mordred was still far ahead of her — if he could make it in, all would be fine. That wouldn’t happen and she would have abandoned her own mission for nothing, but it would be worth it. She sent him her thoughts, pleading for him to be quick.

When the electron ray gates begun to close, he was one hive from entering the room where Nimueh and Darth Muirden battled. Morgana was still fifteen gates behind. Exactly like she had seen.

Mordred leaned against the metal on the left side, and she got a good view of the room ahead — at least where the Guardian and the Sith were fighting. It was worse, worse than anything she had been through before, and even if she knew what was coming, nothing could have prepared her for it.

Nimueh was, for all intents and purposes, winning. She was pressing him hard, and the double blade flew away from her hand in swift spins that could have ripped a lesser fighter in half. The Sith lord could do nothing but parry it away, trying to keep safe, using the long light rays to protect his body from the merciless onslaught. She was just about to use one of his blades to tip him towards the opening, when he made a quick move, bashing his double handle in her chin. She wobbled behind, out of balance for a second — but a second was all the Sith needed: both his hands firmly on his handle, and pulling back for a millisecond, he buried the lightsaber deep in her belly, the blood-red blade showing through her back.

Mordred was screaming even before she tumbled and fell to the floor. Darth Muirden took his time into pulling it back from her still body and turning to face Mordred where he stood. For a second, his eyes met hers through the red lights, and she could have sworn he was glad to see her again, if Siths were capable of such things. It did cause Mordred to turn around, catching the sight of her, but he was too lost in misery to truly care, as immediately returned to face the dark warrior that was ahead of them.

The gates opened again, and while she ran ahead, ignoring the tears that seemed to be rolling off her eyes without her noticing, she could see that Mordred was attacking him relentlessly, righteous fury fuelling his movements. She saw as her friend sliced the middle of double sword, making half of it fall down, dead. The Sith jumped back, giving himself time to adapt to the change in his weapon, and the ray came back on, trapping Morgana where Mordred had been trapped before.

This was worse, worse than watching him hit Nimueh — as much as Morgana liked her, Mordred was like a brother to her. She fought to control her feelings — her despair — but it was useless as Mordred missed a spar, his blade coming too low to keep a good balance and Darth Muirden turned, kicking Mordred on his chest hard enough to make him stumble. The next second, he used the Force to throw him into the melting pit.

She held her scream of horror, but only just. She had known, after all. He kicked Mordred’s lightsaber down the pit. He looked up at her, a creepy smile in his face, as he ran his red blade against the edge of the pit, creating sparks.

Morgana knew she didn’t have the combat skills that Nimueh and Mordred had had, but she could not simply not fight, not after they had given their lives. It was not her place, nor her mission, but it didn’t matter. If she did nothing, how could she live with herself? If she did nothing, he would certainly leave and kill her brother — something they were all sent to avoid. However small the chance of her being able to defeat him, she needed to try.

Turning on her yellow blade, the waited for the portal to open, and rushed through it. She had mostly trained defencive styles, but she was beyond all training now — there was too much at stake. Entering into deep meditation, she simply let the Force lead her body as they fought, walking around the schism, locked in a deadly dance that she couldn’t control.

Then — impossibly, out of nowhere — Mordred reappeared, jumping back from an impossible fall. He was at their three o’clock, but his appearance was enough to throw her out of her state of mind and the Sith took the chance to reach her — not with his lightsaber, but with his hand, grabbing her arm forcefully.

Her mind exploded, dozens of images flashing at once until she didn’t know what she was seeing anymore — past, present, future; each and all possibilities, all swirling through her mind and her throat was hurting, she was screaming, until the world turned black and she knew no more.

* * *

 

There had been nothing but rage in his heart when he had started fighting the Sith, and as any Jedi Master would have told him, this had been his downfall. One mistake, and he was hanging on for dear life.

The shower of sparks was just an annoyance, and as the ray gate opened, he was grateful for Morgana ditching Arthur and coming to their aid. As she battled, he concentrated and pushed himself up, jumping back into the platform at the same time he summoned Nimueh’s doubleblade to his hand, even though he knew but the basics on how to use it.

His appearance distracted his friend, though, and the Sith caught her arm, making something to her that made her scream — a horrible, haunting sound that echoed in the circular room, drowning them in despair. Mordred didn’t bother to think before he jumped through the schism, using his now longer reach to slash through the man before he managed to run Morgana through with is sabre.

For a second, the Sith seemed to not understand what happened. Then, horribly, his upper body fell to the schism, his lower body following right away.

He had never imagined using the Sai Tok, but at this moment, he was glad he had. Morgana fell silent, falling to the floor, unconscious but seemingly unharmed — and he rushed to Nimueh, to the fading heartbeat of his Master.

He knelt, pulling her head to his lap, and her lips — normally red, and often painted to look even more so — were pale under the lipstick.

“It’s too late,” she whispered, her body trembling. “Too late.”

“No!” he denied, shaking his head, fighting against the tears that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Promise me…” she started, then coughed, a shudders running through her almost faded form. “Promise me, Mordred, that you’ll train the boy…”

“Yes, Master,” he agreed, the first two tears spilling out and falling on her cheeks. It seemed that she was the one crying, but he couldn’t imagine ever seeing Nimueh cry. She had seemed impervious to all of that.She had seemed unbeatable, a force of nature. It was like seeing a star fading away into nothing, but her smile was for him alone as she reached up and touched his face.

“Always so dutiful,” she teased, but there was clear pride in his eyes. “I know it’s not what you had planned…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mordred assured her, not a thought to spare to the life he had hoped to lead before this insanity.

“I could always count on you,” she agreed, and it seemed to Mordred that his tears were made of fire, burning through his cheeks as he faced his shame.

“I failed you — I wasn’t quick enough, I…”

“You did not,” Nimueh’s smile was almost gone. “You may have saved us all — and I know you can do the same for him — make him as great as he’s meant to be.”

“Not as well as you could, Master, never as well as…”

“He is the chosen one…” she sighed, almost beyond her strength now. “He will… bring balance,” her eyes turned to stare right at his. “Train him!”

“I promise,” Mordred could do nothing but nod along his words, and it seemed at his commitment was all that she was waiting for.

Her eyes rolled on their sockets for a second before closing. Her heartbeat slowed to a stop, and Mordred was left alone with his broken heart, as the women the loved were beyond his help.

 

 

 

 


	12. Shadow's Mark

Arthur felt high on excitement and success — though not without a hitch, their planned campaign had been a success. There had been losses, sure, but every battle meant losing someone and, from the reports Percival had just given him, their losses had been very small. Not half a dozen warriors had died though many —  warriors, nobles and peasants alike — had had their lives claimed by the invasion.

 

The destruction of the ship had also meant that communications were back on; and an urgent message from his father had been awaiting for him. For all his words on how he was proud of Arthur for returning to fight, it was clear in his face how worried he was. It was _almost_ heart-warming.

 

“ _Arthur!_ ” His voice had an urgent tone to it in the recorded message. “Arthur — good news — the Senate has elected me. If you _haven_ _’t_ reached Camelot yet — wait for me. I’ll be leaving in a few hours with a strong force — some Jedi are coming too — we’re in no position to deny their help. The Trade Federation _will_ pay for this. And _keep your sister safe_. I’ll be with you soon.”

 

It was almost funny that he would receive that now that everything was done. Surely it meant that they would reach Camelot in less than a day. He didn’t even want to imagine how angry Uther would be when he saw the damage to the Castle, he had often babbled about how important each piece of it was, its history and what not. Arthur did _not_ envy the Trade Federation on this, for he was sure his father would make sure they paid for every single damage with interest. It made him almost giddy.

 

As all good things, it didn’t last.

 

Arthur was reacquainting himself with his throne, listening to Percival’s report on the injured, when Mordred showed up under the door. There were guards back in it, but they made no move to stop or help him — and the burden he carried made Arthur’s heart froze. In the midst of it all, he had forgotten about the Jedi and the Sith they were facing, forgotten about Morgana sudden disappearance, and now it made him feel stupid and irresponsible for not seeing to it right away.

 

There was no mistaking the body he carried — not in her sand-coloured robes, not in the dark, shaved hair that mimicked his, her long padawan braid falling to the floor. It was clear in Mordred’s eyes that he had been crying, and he couldn’t move; couldn’t think; couldn’t do anything other than to pray, against all logic, that this was _not_ the price of his victory — not Morgana’s life. Uther may never forgive him if it was. He would never forgive _himself_ if it was.

 

Although he had walked with his head high so far, upon facing Arthur, Mordred’s knees trembled. He almost let Morgana fall to the floor and Percival, with his long stride, walked towards him and relieved him of his burden. It wasn’t done easily — Mordred seemed to cling to her stubbornly, and Arthur was reminded, once again, that it had been _Mordred_ and not him who had grown up with her, sharing everything with her, and was, in many ways, more her brother than Arthur, with their shared blood, would ever be.

 

“She lives,” Percival said, gathering her in his big arms. Mordred’s answer was more a jerk of his head than a proper nod, as he let go of her.

 

A hand touched his arm, calling his attention, and he saw Gwen’s worried face, her lower lip chewed.

 

“Sire, if I may,” she whispered, looking between him and Morgana’s unconscious form in Percival’s arms. “The Queen’s Chambers can be made ready for her, if you allow it.”

 

He merely nodded, still too stunned to properly speak, and Mordred merely observed, something dead in his eyes, as the pair of them started to walk away.

 

“What happened?” Arthur finally managed to ask, and the padawan merely shook his head.

 

“The Sith — touched her — I don’t know what he did, I couldn’t see… She started screaming and fainted.”

 

It was clear in his eyes that he was still haunted by it, whatever it was, and Arthur could barely nod to acknowledge the information.

 

“The new Supreme Chancellor has dispatched a group of people — many Jedi, I believe — to help us. They should be here in a few hours — tomorrow at most, I trust. Maybe one of them will be able to access what was truly done to her. Meanwhile, Guinevere will see that she’s taken care of.”

 

Mordred lowered his head, and seemed thankful, but still shaken. Arthur needed another second to adjust his thoughts and notice what was wrong.

 

“Where’s Master Nimueh?” he asked, but he feared the answer; for it was written in the padawan’s face, on the new marks of pain around his mouth and in the raw red of his eyes.

 

Mordred just shook his head, silent and a new wave of tears threatened to spill from his eyes. Arthur’s heart broke a little more for him.

 

“She has passed into the Force,” he finally said, his voice faint. “And the Sith is no longer a threat.”

 

“Did she…?” Arthur wondered, trying to imagine how it had happened.

 

“No,” Mordred shook his head. “I did.”

 

Most men Arthur knew would have taken pride in such a feat, but Morded barely seemed aware he had killed something that should not even exist; it was clear that whatever glory it brought, it would never be enough to pay for what he had lost.The two of them remained in silence for another second. Nobody moved or spoke, although over a dozen knights were in the room with them. Standing up, Arthur walked towards the padawan that seemed to be using all his strength to just keep standing, and clapped his back for a second, before squeezing his shoulder, trying to demonstrate how much he appreciated all of it.

 

“You were all incredibly brave,” he told Mordred, his voice low, and the smaller man shuddered at it, as if he didn’t think he was worthy of the comment. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mordred, I really am. She was a remarkable woman, and a great Jedi. I will make sure she has a funeral worth of the hero she was.”

 

With a small shake, Mordred denied it.

 

“If I may, sire, I think the Order could prefer to take the funeral into our own hands,” He pressed his lips into a thin line. “There are traditions…”

 

“Of course,” he agreed, not wanting to press on it; even if Nimueh had been a hero to Camelot — in the past as in the present. It didn’t matter.

 

He didn’t let go of Mordred, but the other man didn't seem uncomfortable about it — if possible, he seemed to crave any sort of comfort that might be given to him. It was an odd look on him, so subdued, looking at his own feet. Mordred might have been shy, but he had nerve and seeing him so defeated was painful. Arthur’s eyes ran through the front of his head, cropped close to the skull, and the long braid, reaching a bit past his shoulder, and the tiny ponytail where the curls that would have naturally grew all around were tied together. It was shorter than Morgana’s by a few inches, and it made him remember something.

 

“Morgana called both of your names before running back to you,” he told Mordred, unsure of what it meant, if it was helpful or hurtful. All he could do was try.

 

“She did?” he asked, looking at Arthur from under his eyelashes.

 

“She seemed a bit out of it,” he explained. “Then called your names and ran away — back to you.”

 

“A vision,” Mordred said, frowning. “She has been having many of these lately — I don’t know — maybe…” he shook his head, at loss. “I can’t help her.”

 

Helplessness matched Mordred as poorly as it matched Arthur. He wanted to say something — anything — to help, but he didn’t know why, and in a flash, the moment was broken by a new appearance.

 

Merlin was running inside the room, grinning widely, Elyan with a fond smile behind.

 

“MORDRED! ARTHUR!” he roared, with the enthusiasm of the child he seemed to be. “I’VE DID IT — I EXPLODED THE SHIP! WE’RE SAFE!”

 

Arthur couldn’t help but mirror Elyan’s expression, although it was just a tug at his lips.

 

“Well done,” he said, but quietly, hand still in Mordred’s shoulder.

 

“Wait until Master Nimueh hears!” he seemed excited, then looked around, shocked and wondering. “Where is Master Nimueh?”

 

His eyes bore into Mordred’s, and seemed to read the whole of his body expression, all his feelings, the fresh grief and pain.

 

“Oh,” Merlin said, at loss for a second, before he threw himself against the padawan, enveloping him in a hug. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and Arthur let go of them, wanting to give them as much privacy as he could.

 

“So am I, chikra” he heard Mordred reply, holding him back after a moment of surprise. “So am I.”

 

And by now the victory tasted like ashes in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The atmosphere in front of the castle was joyful, but Mordred didn’t feel like he belonged in it. The large cruiser of the Supreme Chancellor was about to land in the courtyard of the main hangar, and the secondary entrance to the palace was as beautifully crafted as the main one, towards the city and the plains in which the battle had happened.

 

Leon, Lancelot, Percival and another twenty knights guarded the two representatives from the Trade Federation, while the rest was spread behind Arthur in a semi-circle, facing the ship. Mordred supposed such a heavy guard wasn’t really needed, but a show of strength would be exactly to Uther’s taste, from what he had gathered about the man during the years.

 

He stood his place beside Arthur, as the king had insisted, Merlin on his other side. He didn’t feel as if he had any reason to be there, but he wasn’t in a good state to argue it. As the prisoners got close, Arthur turned towards them, his face dark with righteous anger.

 

“Now, Vice-Roy Alined, you’ll need to go back to the Senate and explain your actions,” he said, and it was clear he expected the consequences to be dire.

 

“I have the _impression_ you can kiss your Trade franchise goodbye,” Leon jabbed, and even Lancelot snickered at this.

 

The main ramp of the cruiser lowered, and Mordred followed the knights in leading the two accused men towards the ship. Justice would be served to them soon enough, and a new pang of pain crossed his head to think this should have been Morgana’s moment of glory in front of her peers and her dominating father. It was not fair.

 

Uther came down, followed by Senator Aredian and three score of Republic Guards. It was clear he had come for battle, and arrived too late for it. Behind him, half a dozen Jedi came — one padawan among five Masters, three council members. Mordred was quick to recognise them all: Master Gaius, still limping slightly as he adjusted to his new mechno-leg; Master Deaton and his former padawan, Master Jen-Fer — two powerful Guardians in their own right; Master Alator, whose experience as a Shadow might have prevented the whole tragedy, came followed by his padawan, Alis-Sen; and Master An-hor-ra, his white hair floating in the wind, and it was a relief that such a skilled healer was present to care for Morgana.

 

The Supreme Chancellor walked right towards him and Merlin, and the two of them bowed in respect.

 

“The Republic is indebted to you for your bravery, Mordred,” he said, his face somewhat dour in the midst of the celebration. “And I, personally, am grateful for your saving of my daughter’s life.” Mordred grimaced at it, but it was better than the accusations he had been expecting. Perhaps the three years at Coruscant, learning the job of a Senator since his brother’s death, had taught him something. “And you, young Merlin,” Uther gave a child a smile that looked out of place in his stern face. “We will watch your career with a great interest.”

 

There was nothing they could say, but bow again and with the whole exchange, the knights had already led Alined and Trickler to the ship. The other Jedi nodded at him, and he found his place in their line, beside Alis-Sen, Merlin still trailing behind him. He watched without emotion as father and son met.

 

“Congratulations on your election, Father.” The king said, his voice firm but political.

 

“Your boldness saved our people, Arthur,” reminded the older man. “It is _you_ who should be congratulated — showing the true spirit of Camelot to everyone in the galaxy.” He patted the king’s back, clearly proud. “In spite of everything, I was glad to hear you had fought and won by your own merit.”

 

Arthur lowered his head, without a single word, suddenly no longer a king, but a young man who still craved a father’s approval. It was a weird sight to Mordred, but not an unexpected one. He wished for nothing more than to be able to hear again Nimueh’s quiet appraisal of his work; and yet, he knew it was more than time to allow her to pass.

 

“There is an old prophecy, coming from our planet and recorded by the Jedi;” Senator Aredian said, his voice soft, but carrying far. “It talks about the Once and Future King, who will unite all people under one equal rule, serving justice for all. Seeing your father now, I am sure that our prophesied King is among us — and the whole Republic will benefit from it.”

 

“I put no stock in such things,” dismissed Uther, quickly, his eyes still on his child. “But this I _do_ believe: together; we shall bring peace and prosperity to the Republic.”

 

“May the gods hear you, Father,” was all Arthur said, and, together, they walked back into the palace.

 

* * *

 

 

Each of them had their own role to play, but Gaius would not worry with business before his padawan was taken care of. Seeing Morgana on the queen’s bed, so perfectly still, all her fire gone, was almost something of a nightmare. Almost twenty years had passed, but he could still see her mother standing on the same place, her life ebbing away just as her son’s started. She had none of Ygraine’s golden hair, but much of her delicate beauty. In sleep, she looked almost peaceful.

 

An-hor-ra was checking on her, with his eyebrows knit together.

 

“Tell me what happened,” the Healer asked to the padawan who had been the only witness.

 

“He held her arm, and she screamed then fell.” Mordred said, economical on his words. “She hasn’t woken up since.”

 

An-hor-ra looked back at her, sighing.

 

“Anything else that might be important, child?”

 

Mordred started shaking his head, but stopped.

 

“Arthur — King Arthur, that is — said she called our names before leaving her post and going to us. I believe she had a vision. In fact, Master, now that you mention it — since leaving to this mission, she has had a number of them — all quite strong and mostly accurate. She knew Merlin would win the race, although he had never even finished before. She seemed to know that Nimueh would be killed. She seemed to know we’d be attacked in Tatooine, she was very agitated and calling for Gaius to return.”

 

This was news for him, and made his heart ache a bit, made him feel guilty for every moment he had ever been exasperated with her.

 

“Hmmm,” the other man nodded, slowly. “Interesting.”

 

“Master?” Mordred asked, anxious as most young men were.

 

“I haven’t seen this in a long time,” continued the healer.

 

“So you know what ails her.” Gaius said, a bit impatient himself.

 

An-hor-ra’s eyes were a bit sad when they turned towards Gaius.

 

“I think she has been target by a very specific mind attack — one aimed to demolish the barriers of the mind to time. It would cause a lesser effect, if she wasn’t already so talented in Seeing. In Morgana’s case… There is nothing to be done, but wait. She will wake up soon — a few more hours. Her brain needs resting after the flood of visions. She will never be fully the same — those doors cannot be closed again; and those who show promise as Seers in their early age spend over a decade as padawans, training to reach this stage — but physically, she should be fine. With training and focus, we may still turn this tragic acts into a great asset to the Order. But Gaius, my old friend…” he mouth twisted in a sad smile. “I fear you will loose your padawan.”

 

Gaius took a deep breath at this — not unexpected. If what An-hor-ra said was true, Morgana would need a strong Seer to guide her, and they had been painfully inadequated match from the start, only Uther’s continuous insistence had led him to take her for training; now this would prove impossible. Part of his heart felt sad at the prospect, because, for all their differences, he had grown used to her presence in his life — almost ten years, she had been his padawan — and on his own way, he loved her as if she had been his own child. Now, it was time to let her go — let her grow — into the Jedi she was meant to become.

 

“It’ll be as the Force wills it — and as the council decides. I am only glad she will be OK.”

 

With a nod to Gaius, An-hor-ra left to check on the other injured. Sighing, he turned towards the padawan, who looked as if he carried the weight of the whole galaxy in his shoulders.

 

“Come on, Mordred,” he said, kindly. “There’s much work for us yet to do.”

 

They took another moment to just look at Morgana’s sleeping form before leaving her under Guinevere’s care. There was much they had to clear about these last events.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Master Kilgharrah had gone through much in the centuries since he was born, but it was always an emotional moment when a padawan was turned into a Knight. It had been a very long time since they had last elevated someone into a knight without their Trial, but those were exceptional circumstances, however little he liked it.

 

The Council chamber was dark, light by their lightsabers alone. A myriad of colours and shades shone bright, and Mordred’s lowered head in the middle of it all. As Grand Master, it was expected that he would be the one to cut the braid, and, although there was something about the boy that had always disquieted him, he would not balk.

 

The rest of the council lowered their lightsabers as Mordred knelt in front of him. A dark space was left where his Master should have been, a silent honour of Nimueh’s importance in his life. Kilgharrah spoke the words he had said many times before, even with a heavy heart.

 

“By the right of the council — by the will of the Force, I dub thee Jedi — knight of the Republic.”

 

 

The claws of his species made holding a lightsaber a tricky thing, but he had practised for longer than many civilisations held, and long since mastered it. Swiftly, he used the tip of his golden blade to cut through the hair, that fell to the ground. He had almost grown insensitive to the burnt smell it produced.

 

Mordred stood, his face showing none of the glory one could expect from the moment one was knighted; but all things considered, it was not surprising. The lights were back on, and the lightsabers where back in their belts, as Kilgharrah continued.

 

“We confer on you the level of Knight” he said, his voice heavy. “But we do not agree with you taking this boy as your padawan learner.”

 

Mordred’s lips grew thin, considering for a moment before replying.

 

“Master Nimueh believed in him,” he reminded them all, and Kilgharrah could do nothing but nod.

 

“He may be the Chosen One,” he granted, unwillingly. “Nevertheless, I fear grave danger in his training.”

 

Mordred looked at his feet, as a young padawan being scolded, before squaring his shoulders and looking back up.

 

“Master Kilgharrah, I gave Nimueh my word.” The child answered, his voice firm, a true knight and a credit to his former master. “I _will_ train Merlin. Without the approval of the Council, if I must.”

 

He traded a look with the other council members, but, in the end, it was left in his hands. He held on a sigh.

 

“I sense Nimueh’s defiance in you,” he said, finally, a bit sad for it. Nimueh — like Peter, before her — could have been some of the greatest Jedi in the Order, if only they weren’t always so close to choosing the wrong path. Ironic that his own training line should be the one always causing them grief. “You don’t need it.” He shook his head minutely, before giving his final word. “We will accept it. You may take Merlin as your apprentice, but be mindful of your responsibilities — to him and to us all.”

 

Mordred bowed to them, and Master Peter was the one to speak. He had looked quite grim since learning of his former apprentice’s fate.

 

“Now go, Mordred, and tell him the good news.”

 

There was no need to say it twice, and it was clear that Mordred looked forward to leaving the chamber. As the doors closed behind their newest knight, Alator addressed them, his face hard.

 

“There is no doubt. The mysterious warrior was a Sith — Darth Muirden, seemed to be his name.”

 

Kilgharrah had already known, but it didn’t make him easier.

 

“There are always two,” he reminded them. “No more — no less. A master and an apprentice.”

 

“But which one we destroyed?” wondered Deaton, his dark face worried. “The master or the apprentice?”

 

And this question, none of them could answer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nimueh’s Kal'buir was held at the Temple. All the Council, many other knights, padawans and younglings were in attendance — almost all but Morgana and the young Seers that were in isolation. Young Stiles was there, and Mordred felt a small pang for all things that he had imagined and would never come to pass — he’d have to speak to the boy soon. Still, nothing was more important than following his word to Nimueh and maybe — maybe — by the time he was ready… But it was useless to consider it now. The future was not where his mind was meant to be, specially not when he was meant to be honouring the woman that had taught him so much.

 

An honourable goodbye, but his Master had never cared for such things.

 

Together, they repeated the mantra and the fires engulfed her body. He could now barely see her white skin, or the dark hair that had grown long and wild. Drums rolled, and doves were released. They stood, silent, as the shell of the Master Jedi was consumed by the fire, until nothing remained of her but the lightsaber in his belt.

 

Soon, it would follow her.

 

“What will happen to me now?” Merlin whispered, his eyes big and so sad that might break Mordred’s heart alone, if there was anything left to break.

 

“The Council has granted me permission to train you,” he explained, and in the light of Nimueh’s funeral pyre, he felt duty bound to repeat his promise to her. “You will be a Jedi, I promise.”

 

Merlin just answered with a firm now, his jaw firm, and stood a little bit taller now that he _belonged_ somewhere. His sorrow was turned into peace, in true Jedi fashion, even if it was _not_ what Mordred had expected.

 

Maybe there was hope for them, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right! Here we are! :D
> 
> I have no words to express how much I loved writing this fic - how deeply I loved this 'verse. It has been keeping me up at night for over an year now and I had hoped - HOPED - I'd be able to finish publishing this one to start the next one right away - alas, real life had other ideas (such as broken foot and surprise fetus and really 2016 what HAVEN'T you thrown at us?). I am, now, still working on the 2nd fic - that is to be quite longer than this one, part of the reason why I'm still writing. Unfortunately, all those surprises meant I'm having a much slower writing-rate (so uncomfortable!), and yet, you can rest assured that the next installment will come (as soon as I can, I don't publish until I'm done to make sure I don't write one thing that later makes no sense and yadda yadda). 
> 
> Thank you all for bearing with me until here and I hope you'll stay on the ride!
> 
> <3


End file.
